


City of Angels

by fardareismai2



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Noir, Explicit Sexual Content, Fandom Fusion, L.A. Confidential Fusion, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Police, Prostitution, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai2/pseuds/fardareismai2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1950's Los Angeles isn't all Hollywood glitz and glamour. Three cops, each chased by their own demons, are confronted with the gritty underbelly of the city, and must untangle a web of lies, corruption, drugs, and murder. And how does a ring of high end whores figure into it all? As everyone tries to figure out who is pulling the strings, no one is left unscathed by the City of Angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venis_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/gifts).



> This is a fandom fusion with the movie, L.A. Confidential. If you've seen the movie, you'll recognize a lot of scenes, plot, and some dialogue. I have an entirely new level of respect for screenwriters who adapt books into movies. Obviously, neither L.A. Confidential nor Teen Wolf belong to me, I just played in their sandboxes. 
> 
> This is a noir story, with all the violence, mayhem, and death that entails. Consider yourself warned.

I blame this experiment entirely on [venis_envy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy). It's all her fault, so this is for her.

My undying gratitude to [MeraNaamJoker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MeraNaamJoker) for her unwavering support, cheerleading, and beta work. Extra special thanks to [myheroin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myheroin%22) for her excellent beta skills. Any mistakes still present are a result of my incessant tinkering.

* * *

 

“C’mon, Hale. It’s Christmas. We gotta pick up the booze and get back to the precinct.”

“Stow it, Argent. Just this one stop, then we’ll pick it up.”

They pull up in front of a modest little post-war, prefab house. There’s a new ’53 Buick Skylark in the driveway.

“What are we doing here, Derek?”

“Got a tip off one of your old man’s lieutenants. Since your old man died, his lieutenants are rolling on each other for a little scratch. This asshole’s been pimping out his daughter, and smacking her around. Call it in, Chris. Assault and battery, and resisting arrest. They’ll find him when they get here.”

Chris calls it in, and watches his partner, Detective Derek Hale, march up the driveway. Chris can hear the sounds of someone in the house being hit all the way to the car. Hale pounds on the door, and when it opens, it’s a matter of seconds before Hale grabs the man by the throat and smashes his face in.

Blood sprays across the pavement, and the man screams as his shoulder is wrenched out of place.

Derek’s eyes flash blue. “You don’t ever touch her again. You get me?”

The man nods, tears mingling with the blood streaming from his nose and mouth as Derek cuffs him. A search of his pockets turns up a wad of cash. Derek tosses it to the daughter, who stands on the porch watching. She can’t be more than sixteen.

“You got somewhere safe to go?”

The girl nods.

“Go. Get yourself cleaned up and get out of here.”

Derek leaves the man cuffed to the porch, and with a last punch to the head, knocks him unconscious.

As he’s getting back in the car, Chris asks, “What is it with you and abusers?” Derek is known for his overreaction whenever they’re called in on a domestic, even more so when kids are involved.

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead, he grunts and puts the car in gear and heads to the liquor store. He knows Chris has his reasons for backing up Derek’s “resisting arrest” explanations for the beatings some of his collars take. Being the one straight shooter in a family of criminals means Chris has his own demons, but Derek resolutely refuses to talk, or even think, about Paige.

******************

Detective Danny Mahealani swirls the drink in his hand, while the Christmas party on the set of _Justice Files_ goes on around him. Parties like this are just one of the perks of being the official police consultant to the show. One of the actors, some bit player, makes his way over and leans against the makeshift bar alongside Danny.

“I guess when you’re a real life cop, this must all seem a little silly.”

Danny eyes the guy, almost a kid really, but he’s pretty, like most of the cast and his mouth . . . Danny knows the thoughts he’s having about that mouth are illegal in most states.

“You play the rookie, ‘Officer Jones’, right?”

The actor flushes. “I, uh . . . I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

Danny doesn’t know who he is really. These bit players come and go, and odds are the rookie character is going to get killed off in another episode or two, so he rarely learns the actors’ names. That said, he knows he’s reading the signs right when he extends his hand.

“Danny Mahealani.”

“Yeah, I know,” the actor replies as he shakes Danny’s hand. “Ethan Rains.”

“So, you wanna get out of here, Ethan?” Danny asks.

“That depends.”

“On?”

Ethan leans in close and whispers, “Whether you promise to use those handcuffs of yours, or not.”

Danny grins. “Let’s get our coats.”

They’re interrupted by Bobby Finstock, “Danny, my boy!”

“Bobby,” Danny greets him. “Ethan, this is Bobby Finstock. He’s a reporter for Hollywood Undercover.”

Ethan’s face turns stony, and Danny knows he’s not getting laid tonight. “Yeah, I know who he is.” He turns and stomps away.

Danny looks at Bobby, waiting for an explanation.

Bobby shrugs. “I did a piece last year on some jocks and Hollywood brats trying to pump up on Were blood,” he snorts. “As if that would work. Anyway, I may have mentioned his twin brother, Aiden, a time or two.”

Danny shakes his head. Only now he can’t help imagining two Rains brothers.

“So, Danny boy, I have a tip for you. Jackson Whittemore and Jennifer Blake—”

“Who?”

“A couple of contract actors over at MGM. My source tells me they’ve picked up some aconite powder and are partying just around the corner. I get an exclusive, you get the bust and a photo op. It’s a win/win.”

Aconite powder, otherwise known as _ayurvedic wolfsbane_ , is the newest drug on the market. Introduced by the late drug lord Gerard Argent. It’s a mild hallucinogenic for humans, but for Weres, it’s like catnip. Booze and other drugs might make them a little tipsy, but their metabolisms burn through them too fast for a real high. Lace a little wine or a smoke with aconite though, and it’s party time for Weres. Unfortunately, it also makes them compliant and easy to control: biddable. And it’s devastatingly addictive for them. The idea of it leaves a bad taste in Danny’s mouth.

A little haggling and an hour later, Danny is hauling Whittemore and Blake out of a skeevy motel room. Light bulbs flash, and Danny poses proudly between the two half naked, and clearly tripping, wanna be stars, before handing them off to uniformed officers.

He pockets the fifty bucks Bobby hands him before heading into the motel room. In addition to the aconite powder, Danny finds a notebook. He thumbs through it until a business card falls out. Picking it up, he reads, “ _Triskelion: All Your Fantasies Come True._ ”

**************************

Across town, Police Captain Peter Hale watches, as the mayor unveils the new plans for a freeway system criss-crossing Los Angeles. While the press asks questions and takes pictures, Peter sees a steely eyed woman off to one side. Her red hair is perfectly coiffed, and she’s dressed to the nines. Unlike the other women present, however, Peter knows she is a force to be reckoned with. He also knows that she’s the brains—and money—behind these plans.

As the power players move into a parlor off the main ballroom, Peter glad-hands the mayor and the chief of police, nods in greeting to the district attorney, Noah Deucalion. They work together frequently. He makes his way around the room, until he’s finally in front of the red head.

“Hello, Lydia.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him and extends her hand in return. “A pleasure, Captain Hale. How are you?”

“Quite some plans you have there, Ms. Martin.”

“What makes you think they’re mine?”

He nods his head at the mayor speaking with a group of men. “Because they’re dinosaurs. They don’t have the vision for this.”

Lydia doesn’t smile, not quite, but Peter notes a tiny crinkle in the corner of eye.

However, that’s as far as their interaction is permitted to continue. The mayor takes Ms. Martin by the elbow, and the chief steers Peter toward the bar.

“She’s way above your pay grade, Hale.”

Peter grins. “Just making small talk, Chief.”

“They’re worried about all the people moving in to take over now that Argent’s gone. They’re afraid of a gangland war, Chicago style.”

“They’re right to worry. Small time players are already moving in. Players from Chicago and New York, too. No one big, but that’s only a matter of time.”

The chief gives him a significant look. “Put a stop to it, Peter.”

“How much leeway do I have?”

“Just get it done.”

“Yes, sir.”

The chief is already walking away, and doesn’t see the feral smile on Peter’s face.

*********************************************

Derek walks into the liquor store. It’s decked out for Christmas, tinsel dripping from the frames of all the movie star photographs and autographs decorating the walls. He hears someone talking to the owner, and freezes. The voice is honey smooth—slides down his spine warm and thick.

“A case each of gin, scotch, and rum. Top shelf. You don’t want to see how upset she’ll be if you send that watered down shit you sell everyone else.”

“Sounds like quite a party.”

Derek hears a quiet laugh. “Yeah, quite the party.” There’s a hint of bitterness in the answer. Derek doubts the guy behind the counter even picked it up, but Derek can hear it there at the edges.

When Derek finally forces his feet to move again, and comes around a stack of liquor cases, he sees him. The guy is tall and lithe, with long limbs and a slim waist. He’s young, really young looking—Derek has half a mind to check his ID—and moves with an unusual grace as he turns and looks at Derek.

“Do you want it delivered?”

The boy’s eyes remain on Derek even as he answers, “Between three and four tomorrow.”

The owner of the store looks up, and when he sees Derek, his gaze hardens. Derek can smell the disgust rolling off the man, but whether it’s because he hates cops or hates werewolves, Derek can’t tell.

“Give me a minute, Stiles,” the owner says, and begins throwing together a box of booze for Derek.

Derek realizes he’s staring and flushes. Finally, he says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, officer-wolf.”

“That obvious?”

Stiles smiles at him. “You may as well wear your badge on your chest.”

“And the rest?”

Any answer Stiles would give is cut off when the owner tries lifting the box of booze, but he’s struggling with the weight of it, and it slams back down on the counter. Derek breaks away from Stiles to lift it easily, and forces himself not to look at Stiles as he leaves.

Outside, he heads to the car, but moves toward a new Cadillac parked outside when he sees a curly haired kid inside with a pair of shiners. His hackles rise, and he taps on the window for the kid to open it. He sees a woman getting out of the front seat. She’s blond and beautiful, and a wolf. Derek growls at her.

“Get lost. They’re way out of your league.”

Derek sets the box on the hood of the car, shifts and pins the she-wolf against the door. As he frisks her, she purrs at him. “Like what you feel, officer?”

He growls again as he finds her shoulder holster and removes her gun.

“I have a license for that,” she singsongs at him.

“Erica Reyes,” he reads from her license.

“We call her Catwoman,” Stiles says as he exits the store.

Derek taps on the car window again, and this time the kid opens it. “You okay, kid?”

A beautiful red head leans over the boy. “He’s fine.”

“Wasn’t talking to you.” There’s no missing the simmering menace in his tone. He looks back at the boy. “Someone been hitting you?”

“I’m fine, officer.”

“You’ve really got the wrong idea,” Stiles tells Derek. “Not many people would care enough to ask though. It’s sweet,” he says as he gets into the car.

“You sure you’re okay, kid?”

The kid laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Derek eyes Erica once more, before handing her back her gun and license. She grabs them and flashes blue eyes at him. Derek responds in kind, and she grins as she slides back into the car.

Chris steps up next to Derek as Derek grabs the box of booze from the hood of the car, and Derek notices that Chris and Erica lock eyes for moment before the car pulls away.

“You know her?”

“Seen her before. She used to work at the station.”

*******************

Peter is talking to a pair of reporters. They’re doing a feel good piece on the LAPD, part of an attempt by the mayor and district attorney to polish the image of the city. He sees his nephew and his partner walk in with a case of booze. He walks the reporters toward a desk.

“And _this_ is Sergeant Scott McCall. Son of the legendary Rafael McCall, my former partner. He’s our watch commander for the night.”

The reporters snap a couple of shots of Scott, and of Scott and Peter, before wandering off to interview more people.

“A word, Scott.”

McCall follows Peter to another room and shuts the door. Peter fishes out a couple of glasses and a bottle of whiskey from his desk, pouring a shot for each of them.

“To your father,” he toasts.

They both drink, then Peter continues, “I saw the results of your test. Youngest applicant, hell, youngest to pass the lieutenant’s exam in the history of the department. What division are you thinking of?”

Scott grins, proud of himself. “Detective Bureau.”

Peter shakes his head. “Scott, Scott. You don’t have the stomach for it. You don’t _get_ human weaknesses or evil. You’re a better politician, boy.”

“You’re wrong, sir.”

“Am I? Would you plant evidence on a suspect you _knew_ was guilty to make sure he went trial?”

“Sir, you already know I won’t.”

“Would you rig a crime scene to help a district attorney with their case?”

“No.”

“Would you shoot a criminal in the back to prevent him from hurting someone then, or in the future?”

“No.”

“Then don’t go into the Detective Bureau, Scott! Play to your strengths. Go to a division that won’t require you to make those types of decisions. Internal Affairs or Patrol.”

Scott’s eyes flash gold. “I know you’re looking out for me, sir. But I don’t think I have to do things your way. Or the way my father did them.”

Peter’s eyes flash blue in response. “Fine. It’s on your head then.”

******************

Chris has helped the other cops set up a makeshift bar in the room they have their morning meetings in. There’s tinsel and other Christmas decorations up, and the party is in full swing. Chris walks over to Derek with a cup of eggnog.

“Hey partner, drink?”

“Nah. Gotta write this report first.”

A pair of cops walk by on their way from the muster room, and Derek hears them talk about two of their fellow detectives who apparently got into a fight at a bar. Derek hears the racial epithets and tough talk of “teaching the perps a lesson” being tossed around, but ignores it in favor of working on his report.

The party continues on around him, with cops walking in and out of the detectives’ pen.

******************

Scott is sitting at the watch desk. He’s not really in control. Watch commander on Christmas Eve is a little like being the hall monitor in high school. When he’d attempted to shut down the party, the other officers simply ignored him. He’s reading the incident reports for the evening when a group of officers surges through the room.

“What’s going on?”

He discovers that the injuries the officers sustained in the bar fight have been greatly exaggerated, and a drunken mob is heading to the holding cells for retribution. He may be a wolf, but he can’t take on a roomful of cops on his own.

“C’mon, guys. Greenberg and Harris are fine.”

Someone, Scott doesn’t know who, yells, “Greenberg lost an eye and Harris’ guts had to be sewn back into him!”

“That’s not true,” Scott tries to explain. “They’re home with a few bruises.”

His pleas for calm are ignored, and he’s shoved into a closet with steel reinforced doors—doors specifically designed to keep werewolves out.

*******************

Derek is still working on his report when Mahealani pokes his head into the room. “Hale, you better come get a leash on Argent. He’s gonna kill someone.”

Everyone gets out of his way as they see Derek barreling into the room, Mahealani on his heels. He finds Chris taking swigs from a bottle while punching one of the suspects.

Derek pulls Chris off the guy.

“Fuck you, asshole,” the guy says to Derek as he spits blood.

“Yeah, whatever,” Derek says as he starts shoving Chris toward the door.

“And fuck your _bitch mother_ , too,” the suspect yells.

And Derek . . . Derek loses it. He’s shifted before he’s even finished turning around, and there’s a chorus of “holy shits” and “Jesus Christs” coming from the others as he grabs the suspect by his throat and slams him up and into the ceiling, pinning him there.

*********************

Scott has escaped from the locked closet, and is trying to get into holding. “Stop! Stop! Officer, that’s an order,” he yells, but the others are keeping him back and no one is paying attention. He’s controlling his shift, barely. He doesn’t want to hurt fellow officers.

In the meantime, the suspect in Hale’s grip is turning an alarming shade of purple, and it’s probably dumb luck that his flailing foot nails Hale right in the balls. The detective stumbles against the bars of a holding cell, and drops the perp. The guy reels, stumbles and falls against Mahealani, leaving a trail of blood across his cashmere jacket. Mahealani grimaces, then knocks the guy out with a right cross.

It’s turned into a outright melee, and Argent is drunkenly swinging at anyone moving toward him. Moments later, the reporters having followed the noise, make their way into the room. Argent turns and swings a wicked left hook into the temple of another one of the perps, dropping him hard.

Flashbulbs go off, and everyone freezes in surprise.

Mahealani utters a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

******************

Three days later, Derek is standing in the district attorney’s office in front of a review board consisting of the chief of police, his uncle, Captain Hale, and District Attorney Deucalion.

“C’mon, Derek,” the chief says. “We need your testimony. Your refusal to cooperate with Internal Affairs isn’t helping you or the department. There will be indictments handed down, badges lost. We have to do something to try to restore the LAPD’s image.”

Derek looks at the mirror across the room. He knows McCall is watching from the other side. “I won’t.”

Deucalion stands up and holds a newspaper with an image of Chris slugging the suspect, and headline proclaiming the brutality of the LAPD in Derek’s face.

“Argent was drunk, and you and Argent brought booze to the precinct. Do you understand how this looks? You can save your career if you testify against Argent.”

*********************

Peter is watching Derek intently, hoping against hope his nephew will do the right thing.

“I will _not_ testify against my partner. Or anyone else,” Derek answers.

“You’re a disgrace,” the D.A. says.

Peter sighs. His nephew always had more loyalty than brains.

“Your gun and your badge,” the chief demands. “You’re suspended pending further notice.”

As Derek turns to leave, he mouths _asshole_ at the mirror.

Peter can’t help but smirk.

A few moments later, McCall enters the room.

The chief addresses him. “You have some good insights on this matter, McCall. What would you recommend?”

Scott thinks for a moment, then responds. “The public wants a response, demands it. Several of the officers involved have already secured their pensions. Force them to retire. But the public won’t accept a whitewash. Someone has to pay for real. Bring indictments against Argent and Hale, and make sure they serve time.”

Peter gives McCall a dirty look, then says, “Argent is a disgrace. Since his wife’s death, he’s been failing his fitness reports, and he’s crawled into a bottle. The department has cut him slack for a couple of years now, but every commander he’s served under gives him negative reports. Hale, however, is a valuable officer.”

“You’re saying that because he’s your nephew. He’s a thug who shifted in a roomful of fellow officers!”

Peter leans forward and flashes blue eyes at the young man. “No, Scott. He’s a man that can answer yes to those questions I asked you. A man we need in these troubled times.”

The chief cuts in. “Argent will take the fall for this, but we need someone clean cut that the public will see as a hero. A new face for the department.”

“I’ll testify,” McCall interrupts. “I’ll do what’s right.”

“If you do, I’ll promote you,” the chief interjects.

“Detective lieutenant,” McCall demands.

“Your father didn’t make detective until he was 33. You’re only 30.”

McCall shrugs.

“Well, we still need another witness to corroborate you,” Deucalion cuts in.

“Mahealani.”

“He’ll never testify,” Peter insists.

“He will if you threaten to take away his consulting position on Justice Files. He lives for that show.”

“Alright, McCall. Thank you.”

As McCall starts to leave, Peter pulls him to the side. “Are you really prepared to be reviled in the department? The men will not take kindly to this.”

“I am.”

“Then God help you, son, because I won’t.”

*******************

When Danny walks into the room, he can sense that something big is happening.

Captain Hale starts off. “I’m not going to beat around the bush. We have a roomful of witnesses that saw you hit the suspect and knock him out. However, we have a witness willing to testify that you did so only after he hit you.”

Danny shifts in his seat. “What do you want me to do?”   
“You need to testify against three men whose pensions are secure. Our other witness will deal with the other men being charged, and you won’t be asked about them,” Deucalion explains.

“You’ll get a slap on the wrist for your involvement. A short suspension, and some time in vice. When you transfer back to narcotics, you can go back to the show.”

And there it is. The trap closing shut.

“The show, sir?”

“You’re too high profile right now, Danny,” the chief says. “We need to keep you out of the spotlight for a while.”

Captain Hale leans forward. “You’ve never been a stupid man, Mahealani. Don’t start now.”

Danny shrugs. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Two weeks later, Danny walks into the grand jury witness room and sees McCall. “So, you’re the star witness?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s your deal?”   
“My deal?”   
“Yeah. What’s your angle? Your payoff?”

“Payoffs are your area of expertise, Mahealani. I’m doing my duty.”

Danny shakes his head. “No, you’re getting something out of this. If you’re making a play for detective, watch out. You’re about to snitch and burn a bunch of men who are friends with half the Detective Bureau. They’re going to hate your guts.”

“Yeah, well, you’re testifying, too.”

“I’m about to roll on a couple of old guys with secure pensions. By the time the ink is dry on the rulings, they’ll be fishing in Mexico with pretty señoritas to console them. Compared to you, I’m clean as a whistle.”

The bailiff calls McCall’s name and he stands to leave.

“McCall, a word of warning. Derek Hale is going to fuck you for this for the rest of your life. He hates snitches. Bad enough you got him suspended, but getting his partner fired?” Danny shakes his head. “You’d better pray Hale doesn’t lose his badge permanently.”

********************

Derek sits in a bar nursing a drink, making small talk with a pretty, if overly made up blond. She’s nice enough, even if maybe she’s seen a few too many miles to keep playing this game. He’s about to buy her a drink, when he smells his uncle behind him. A moment later, a hand is on his shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?”

“As my captain, or my uncle?”

“Both? Say goodnight to your friend.”

But the blond is already talking to the guy next to her. Derek grabs his drink and joins Peter at his table. There’s a newspaper on it, open to an article about the Christmas Eve disaster at the precinct. Derek’s been avoiding the news.

“So? What does it say? McCall a hero yet for squealing on me and Argent? Are we getting indicted?”

Peter takes a sip of his drink and shrugs his shoulders. “McCall is a political animal. He made his play, and they’re making him a detective.”

Derek slumps in his seat. “What do you want, Peter?”

“Your loyalty to Argent is impressive. I’m not sure I would have done the same. I think you’re a good cop, Derek. I like your willingness to use violence as a necessary means at times to do the job right, and I really, really like the way you punish people who abuse women and children.” Peter cocks his head. “Or are you punishing someone else?”

Derek closes his eyes. “Peter—”

“Do you hate them, Derek?”

He opens his eyes, blue, and looks at his uncle. “You know I do.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Peter takes another sip of his drink, and swirls the amber liquid in the glass before he speaks again. “You know, what happened to you? It’s the reason I became a cop.”

Derek gapes at Peter for moment, before tensing. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Waving his hand dismissively, Peter says, “No need to get upset. I just thought you should know; we all have our reasons. Although, I admit to losing sight of them from time to time.” He takes another drink. “Point being, I get it. I get you, and I want to use you, your abilities as a cop…for the betterment of society.”

“What about Chris?”

“Argent’s finished,” Peter replies.

“He’s a year away from his pension! This will kill him, Peter.”

“He’s only lasted this long because you carry him, Derek. He hasn’t been the same since Vicky died, and you know it. If it weren’t for you, he’d have been out two years ago.”

“So that’s it? We’re through? Fuck McCall. That rat bast—”

“McCall is a brilliant tactician. He’s even better than me at playing political games. Don’t underestimate him, Derek. The department needs people like him, but it also needs people like you. I want you to work for me.”

“As what? Your paperboy?”

Peter grabs something from the seat next to him, then tosses it across the table—Derek’s gun and badge. “They’re yours.”

Derek snatches them off the table. “How? Why?”   
“Let’s just say not all of the men are as politically savvy, or fearless, as McCall.” Peter flashes his eyes and lets his teeth elongate. “Most of them recanted their stories. I need you working with me.”

“Detective? Homicide?”

“Technically, you’ll be assigned there, but you’ll work directly for me when I call. The chief has tasked me with cleaning up the city, Derek. Your skills are invaluable in that regard. It’s a muscle job, what you’re best at anyway. You do what I say, no questions asked. Understood?”

Derek feels bitterness well up inside, but he isn’t as stupid as his uncle assumes and he won’t pass up an opportunity to don the badge. “Understood, sir.”

“Good. I’ll see you Monday morning,” Peter says as he gets up to leave.

Derek nods and watches his uncle’s back as he downs the rest of his drink. He tries not to think of what Peter told him, of _her_. He signals the waitress for another round. He has until Monday morning after all.

***************************

When Danny steps into the narco pen after his suspension, the detectives there jokingly catcall him, teasing him about the show and how he’s slumming it now.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says with a wry smile and flips them the bird.

A moment later, the captain of the vice squad comes in and tosses a magazine on Danny’s desk. He thumbs through it and realizes it’s a porn mag. He keeps flipping the pages—men, women, Weres, and every combination thereof. At least he hopes they’re men and women, because some of them look pretty young; they look more like boys and girls.

“Fuck this,” he mutters.

“Someplace else you’d rather be, Mahealani?”

“Yeah, back in narcotics.”

“Make this case, then. It’s the only way you’re getting out of here.”

Danny frowns when he gets to the last page and sees _Triskelion: All Your Fantasies Come True_. It’s the same as the card he found at the wolfsbane bust at Christmas.

The captain talks for a few more minutes, then dismisses them. Danny makes his way to his temporary desk. He tries calling the number. After a few rings a female answers the phone.

“Triskelion.”

“Hi, a friend of mine gave me your number—”

“I don’t know you.”   
“I—”

The line goes dead. Danny calls the operator for a reverse directory lookup.

“There’s no such number,” the operator tells him.

“Look, I just called it.”

“I’m sorry but I’ve triple checked, officer, and that number hasn’t been assigned.”

Danny mutters a quick thanks and hangs up. Now, he’s really curious. Only someone with some serious juice could hide a number like that. This is definitely the type of big case that’ll get him out of vice and back to narco. He calls Finstock to see if knows anything, but he doesn’t.

“This related to a drug bust?”

“Nah, I’m stuck in vice for a while.”

“Too bad, the smut stories don’t sell as well. I was hoping you had some info on some rumors I’ve been hearing.”

“Yeah, what rumors are those?”

“One of Argent’s lieutenants was taken out the other night. Word on the street is that he was about to move a big shipment of wolfsbane, but apparently it’s disappeared.”

“Damn.” It’s exactly the kind of case he’d love to be working. “I just got back, so I’m a little out of the loop. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything.”

“Do that, Meahalani. I need you back working narco. It makes for better copy than the smut.”

The call ends and Danny sits back and looks at the magazine. The pictures aren’t typical jerk-off magazine porn. They’re high class, or as high class as porn gets. This production has money, big money written all over.

“Triskelion,” he mutters, and then taps the logo. “All your fantasies come true . . .” He thinks about some of the pictures and then shudders at the implications. “Time to figure out who you are.”

**********************

Derek is standing next to Chris as he packs up the contents of his desk. Chris looks like his world is coming to an end. Derek supposes it is. As Chris lifts the box and starts to walk out, all the other detectives start patting him on the back, uttering assurances of support, but Derek can hear the hollowness of their words.

As they reach the door, McCall walks in carrying a cup of coffee and notebook. Derek growls and lunges at him, baring his teeth. McCall, startled, spills his coffee all over himself and drops his pen and notebook.

Most of the other detectives laugh. None of them offer McCall any help.

“Snitch,” Derek hisses as a couple of the others hustle him and Chris out of the pen.

They walk to Chris’ car.

“Thanks for that,” Chris says.

Derek shrugs. “Little shit had it coming. Has worse coming. Wanna go grab a drink?”

Chris opens the trunk and drops the box inside. “Can’t. Got a big meeting.”

Laughing, Derek asks, “Oh? You meeting someone?”

“Something like that. I don’t wanna jinx it though, so I’ll tell you about it some other time, but this could be big. Maybe it’ll make up for the stretch I’m gonna do. See ya tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Derek watches as Chris drives off. He knows Chris wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the truth either. It leaves him feeling uneasy.

***************************

Scott knows he shouldn’t be excited about the death of so many people, and he isn’t, not in that way, but when the call came in at midnight on a multiple homicide at the Eichen Coffee House, he realized as the first on the scene he’d be lead in the investigation. Maybe, just maybe, if he made a case it would win some of the other detectives over to his side. Or, he mused, at least shift them from hatred to neutrality. Captain Hale hadn’t been exaggerating about the reception he’d receive.

When he gets to the coffee shop, there’s a pale patrolman waiting outside. He can smell the man’s anxiety.

“Sir, it’s . . . there’s a lot of them, sir. I . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Scott heads in, the patrolman on his heels. He can tell there was a fight of some kind. Broken ceramic and glass litters the floor, and blood—a lot. There’s a trail of it, like someone had been dragged. He follows it into the kitchen, right to the industrial refrigerator. The door is open, and inside . . . inside is a bloodbath. There are several bodies, including a female Were. There are shell casings everywhere, and he can smell the deadly strain of wolfsbane that was obviously used on her.

The patrolman behind him starts to gag, and Scott shuffles him out before he pukes all over the evidence. Another patrolman comes up to him. “Sir, there’s a captain outside.”

Scott heads outside and is immediately besieged by reporters. He navigates his way past them, to Captain Hale, who is barking out orders.

“Captain, I took the call. The case is mine.”

“Sorry, Scott. You can’t have this one. You aren’t ready for it.”

“Captain—”

“No. You can be my second on it, but it’s my case to run. Got that?”

Scott is disappointed, but says, “Yes, sir.”

Their head of forensics, Alan Deaton, walks up to them. “As far as I can tell, based on the number and types of shells, you’re looking at three shooters. 12-gauge shotguns.”

“You sure about that?” Scott asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“There was a report earlier of some guys driving around and discharging shotguns.”

“Start canvassing the neighborhood,” the captain orders.

“Captain Hale.” Another member of the forensics team is approaching them. “We identified one of the victims. It’s Chris Argent.”

Scott sucks in a breath, and the captain curses under his breath.

*************************

Daylight streams through the dirty windows of the old Jungle Motel. It’s slated to be demolished, eventually. The land all around it will be cleared for the new highway Derek’s heard about. For now, it serves a purpose.

Derek looks at the man strapped to the chair that’s bolted to the floor, before punching him in the side three times in quick succession. He tries not to use his full strength, and he’s certainly not shifted, but he hears several ribs crack.

The man wheezes.

Derek cracks his knuckles and moves to his other side.

“That’s the spirit.” Peter tells him as he arrives.

Derek sends a left cross to the guy’s chin.

“Now, now, Derek. We do need his mouth to work.” Peter steps closer. “Mr. Moretti here is going to tell us things. You see, now that Gerard Argent is dead, there’s no organized crime in our fair city. The mayor wants us to keep it that way.”

Moretti flexes his jaw, and then spits blood on the ground.

This time, Derek let’s his eyes go blue and claws come out. When he growls, Moretti starts singing like the proverbial canary.

“Yeah, yeah, I . . . There’s these shooter teams going around and taking out Argent’s old guys.”

“We know that, Mr. Moretti,” Peter says. “Who do they work for?”

“I don’t know!”

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Moretti. You are not being very helpful.”

“What do you want? I don’t know who they are! Look, I can give you some narco tips, but I—”

“You arrived from Mexico this morning, and started trying to conduct business. We don’t want the wolfsbane trade in our city.” He looks at Derek. “We both find it personally offensive.” He lets his eyes flash blue. “Now, tell me, what exactly does the Calavera family think it’s going to accomplish here? This is the City of the Angels, Mr. Moretti, and we intend to keep it that way.”

He nods at Derek, who proceeds to work Moretti over until he’s an unconscious, bleeding mess in desperate need of a hospital.

While Derek goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, he hears Peter tell the other two officers with him—Meyers and Katashi—to take Moretti and put him on the next train back to Mexico; a warning to the Calaveras that Los Angeles is not for the taking.

When Derek emerges from the bathroom, Peter looks at him. “You did well.”

Derek’s terse nod is the only reply he’s capable of. His blood is up, and he feels hot and out of sorts.

“You’re needed at the morgue,” Peter tells him as they walk to the car.

Derek arrives at the morgue, and when he walks in, he’s surprised to see McCall.

“Hale.” He nods down the hall. They walk into a room, and McCall says, “We need you to formally identify the body. He has no next of kin.”

The morgue attendant pulls back the sheet, and McCall asks, “Is that Chris Argent?”

Derek stares at what’s left of Chris’ face. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s Chris.”

“Well, it’s one way to avoid prison.”

Derek’s hands curl into fists. He wants to lay McCall and his smart mouth out, but he wants to know what happened to his partner more.

“What happened?”

“Looks like a hold up gone bad. They took out seven people. I guess Argent was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

A man is brought in, and McCall has the attendant pull back the sheet on a nearby table.

“Is this your son, Mr. Lahey?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Take your time.”

Derek looks and recognizes the boy. _I’m fine officer_. The boy from the liquor store. Without the black eyes, he can see that the boy is beautiful, angelic even. Young.

“It . . . I think it’s Isaac, but his nose . . . I . . . it broke when he was younger, and he looks so young. My Isaac is eighteen, but . . .”

“Any other identifying marks? Scars? Broken bones?”

“He broke uh, his right wrist when he was nine, and his left arm when he was twelve.”

Derek starts to see red. He knows what this history sounds like. A low growl reverberates from him.

“He was clumsy!” Lahey defends.

“When was the last time you saw your son?”

“Around Christmas. We fought—”

Derek growls again.

“I didn’t like his friend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”

The coroner looks up from a set of x-rays and confirms the history.

“My boy,” Lahey wails. “My boy!”

“Do you have any other kids, Mr. Lahey?” Derek asks.

“No. He was—”

“Good,” Derek mutters as he walks out. His head is buzzing and he feels like he’s missing something, something that’s just out of his reach, wonders if or how this relates to whoever Chris was meeting that night.

**********************

The muster room is filled, standing room only. Captain Hale holds up the newspaper: a grisly picture of the murders is splashed across the front page, along with words like “massacre” and “danger.”

“This . . . massacre, it’s not too much to call it that, is our top priority. Not only because the public will demand it—they’re scared—but because it involves one of our own. Chris Argent was one of the victims. He was a regular there. Looks like he was there at the wrong time. For all we know, maybe he tried to stop them.”

All the officers in the room start grumbling. It’s personal now.

“It looks like a robbery gone wrong. The perps used shotguns. Now, this is the important part: yesterday a call came in complaining about a group of kids riding around in an older model Mercury coupe and shooting off guns. A cabbie saw an older model Mercury coupe outside the Eichen Coffee House last night. We have a list from the DMV of locally registered Mercury coupe owners. We’ve divided the list. Partner up and canvas all of them. Bring them here, Hollywood division. The interrogations will be run by Lieutenant McCall.”

There is definitely some grumbling to that news. McCall is still persona non grata among the men.

“Enough! Get out there and find them. _Use any necessary force_ to see them brought to justice.”

Danny understands the implied message—if you kill them, make it clean. Jesus. The man effectively put a bounty on their suspects.

He looks around and sees Derek Hale talking to his temporary partner. He overhears Hale tell him that he’s on his own for today, and that Hale’s got something he’s got to do. Something for Argent. Danny wonders about it, but shrugs it off. He looks down at his list.

Danny’s partner for the day asks him what the plan is.

“If we go down this list, we’re not gonna get anywhere. I know a guy. He knows everything that goes down south of Jefferson.”

His partner hedges. “I don’t know. The captain was pretty specific.”

“I’ll take that chance,” a voice chimes in.

Danny looks up to see McCall. He knows McCall wants in on the action. Why not?

“Sure,” he says.

Danny’s partner shakes his head. “You two need your own camera crew,” he says and saunters off.

************************

Derek walks into the liquor store and right up to the counter where the owner is finishing with another customer. Holding up his badge, Derek asks, “I need an address for one of your customers. His name is Stiles.”

“Stiles . . .”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not a common name, and you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

The owner sighs. “Stiles Stilinski. I have two addresses; one for deliveries and one for billing. Which do you want?”

“Both.”

Fifteen minutes later, Derek is walking up the to the front door of a large home in the Hollywood Hills. A hulking Were answers the door and leads him through the elegantly decorated home to a patio in the back. The beautiful red head from the liquor store is pouring tea.

“Good morning, officer,” she greets him before she looks up.

“Are you Lydia Martin?”

“Yes. I am. I’ve already donated at the office, but something tells me you’re not here for the Widows and Orphans Fund. Tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

The Were interrupts them, trying to look threatening. “Everything okay, Ms. Martin?”

“Yes, Ennis. It’s fine, thank you,” she dismisses him.

“What happened to the other one? Reyes?”

“She no longer works for me.”

He flashes her his badge. “Detective Hale, homicide. Where were you last night?”

“I was here, hosting a fundraiser. Who was killed, Detective Hale?”

“Chris Argent.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know him.” She takes a sip of her tea.

“What about Isaac Lahey? Do you know him?”

She sets down the tea and sighs. “You know I do. You saw me with him Christmas Eve. How did you get my address?”

“The liquor store. This is where Stiles Stilinski’s booze bill goes.”

“Ah,” she replies.

“Isaac Lahey died in the Eichen Coffee House massacre.”

Ms. Martin’s eyes go hard for a moment, studying Derek’s face.

Martin stares at him some more. “Find Isaac’s killer, detective. I’ll make sure you are . . . amply rewarded.”

Derek shakes his head. “No thanks. I don’t want your money.”

Martin’s smile is wry. “Too honorable?”

Ignoring her question, he asks, “Christmas Eve, Isaac looked like someone had worked him over, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Why? You threaten him?”

Taking another sip of tea she asks, “Are you interested in any criminal activity that’s peripheral to the murders?”

Martin hasn’t denied hurting the kid, but something keeps him from losing his cool. “No.”

Martin sets the teacup down. “I run a stable of boys and girls, and Weres. All of legal age, I assure you, but many of my clients like them to look,” she pauses as if trying to find the right words, “not so legal.”

Derek growls, low and disgusted.

“What can I say? There are sick people out there, Detective Hale, but at least I’m giving them someone willing, more than willing usually.

“Some of my clients also like to imagine they’re dating a star. If I see a resemblance, I employ a plastic surgeon to finish the look. Isaac was my Johnny Sheffield. He just needed a few fixes. You’d be surprised the number of men who want a Tarzan Jr. of their own. A few days after you saw him, I arranged for him to take the bite. After all, your kind don’t age like humans. It also helped him heal quickly from the surgery.”

“Christ, no wonder his father had trouble identifying the body.”

Martin shrugs. “Isaac’s father is an asshole.”

Derek can’t disagree.

“Stiles, on the other hand,” she continues, “he looks just like the kid on that detective show and he doesn’t need any help looking young—but you already know that, don’t you?” she asks with a knowing smile that leaves Derek decidedly uncomfortable.

“Now, that’s all I’m going to give you, and if you push me further, I’ll need to call my lawyer and we’ll have to take this downtown. Let me give you Stiles’ address. I don’t know if he knows anything…” she trails off.

“I have his address. Thank you for your time, Ms. Martin.”

Derek leaves, but as he leaves he takes a last look at Martin. She drinks more of her tea, gazing serenely at her view. _Cold as ice_ , _that one_ , he thinks.

********************

Danny and McCall arrive at a house in South Central. It’s a little run down, old, but tidy. There’s a man hitting a punching bag in the driveway. The two cops walk up to him, but he keeps hitting the bag.

“You Vernon Boyd?”

Two more punches and then he holds the bag steady and asks, “Who wants to know?”

“Detectives Mahealani and McCall,” McCall answers and flashes his badge.

Boyd hisses. “You trying to get me killed?” Then he sighs. “What do you want?”

Danny looks at him. “How’s your sister these days?”

“Rotting in Chino.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Boyd gives him a hard look. “Yeah, I remember you now. You’re cop who sent her away. She has kids, man.”

Danny shrugs. “She was selling pot and wolfsbane out her kitchen. How do you feel about maybe shaving some of her time off? My partner here is in real tight with the D.A.”

McCall shoots him a look, but then nods in agreement.

“What you need me to do?”

“Some punks were driving around in a Mercury Coupe, popping off shotguns. We’re trying to find them.”

“You want me to snitch? May as well draw a fucking target on my back.”

“You wanna shave five years off your sister’s sentence, or not? Just look at this list and tell us if anyone on it fits the bill.”

Boyd shakes his head. “Fuck man. Okay, there’s only one guy ‘round here you could be looking for.” He points to the fifth name on the list—Matt Daehler. “I don’t know if he has guns, but he’s bad news. Real bad.”

Danny looks at McCall. “It’s nearby. Ready?”

McCall huffs and heads to the car. Danny follows suit.

“You, you gonna talk to the D.A. ‘bout my sister, right?” Boyd yells after them.

Their replies are lost in the squeal of tires.

********************

Derek’s next stop is a beautiful duplex near Crescent Heights. There are bougainvillea bracketing the front porch, and a small fountain with the playful sound of water tinkling in the front yard. He rings the bell and waits.

After a moment, the door opens and Stiles stands there. He’s in silk robe that’s open enough to show his bare chest and the top of a pair of boxers. His lips are red and swollen, like he’s been kissed.

A voice from inside yells, “Tell them to go away.”

Keeping his eyes on Derek, he says over his shoulder, “I told you that you need to leave. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

An older man comes up behind him. He looms over Stiles possessively, and it makes Derek’s gums itch. “Need me to get rid of him, baby?”

“Get out of here, old man,” Derek tells him.

“I’ll have you—”

Derek flashes his badge. “I said get the hell out of here, shitbird, before I call your wife to come and get you.”

The man blanches and scurries out.

Stiles stifles a grin, then turns serious. “I was expecting you. Lydia called. She told me about Isaac.”

He opens the door wider and invites Derek in.

“Detective Hale? It is Hale, right?”

When Derek nods, Stiles asks, “Can I get you a drink?”   
“Scotch.”

Derek looks around the apartment. It’s fancy, and looks like a movie set. There are a pair of leather couches in the living room, and a sleek bar in the corner. The wood floors gleam, and the floor to ceiling windows are tastefully shielded by a Chinoiserie screen. Through the archway to the next room, Derek can see a large bed swathed in luxurious fabrics. It’s mussed, and Derek doesn’t want to think about why. His nose twitches with the scent of sex in the air.

He turns and observes Stiles at the bar—watches as long, deft fingers remove the stopper from a crystal decanter, wrap around the bottle, and then pour a generous measure into the glass. Derek wonders how those fingers would feel against his skin. The robe has slipped a bit, revealing a broad, pale shoulder dotted with freckles. He watches as Stiles returns the decanter, and then adjusts the robe before turning, and can’t take his eyes off Stiles as he walks to Derek. He’s gorgeous.

Stiles hands him his scotch and says, “I was friends with Isaac, but I hadn’t known him long.”

“You don’t seem all that bothered that he’s dead.”

“Of course I’m bothered that he’s dead! I’m not a complete asshole.”

Derek notes that he doesn’t entirely deny being an asshole on some level, but takes a sip of his scotch instead of answering. He wanders through the apartment. It doesn’t feel like Stiles lives there. Sure, his scent is on everything, but it seems . . . cold.

“Does the name Chris Argent mean anything to you?” he asks.

“Should it?” Stiles replies as he trails after Derek.

Derek pauses at another door. It’s slightly ajar, and it takes a moment for him to register that it opens to a bedroom designed to look like a schoolroom. Stiles brushes by him and closes the door, before turning and leaning against it. “Whatever you desire,” he says with wry smile.

Feeling himself get half hard looking at Stiles, Derek steps away.

“Lydia is humoring you.”

“I know. She’s running whores, and from the look of her pile of bricks, something bigger. I figure she doesn’t want any attention.”

“He gets it in one.”

“Why was Isaac at the Eichen Coffee House?”

“Maybe he was hungry.”

“Do you want to do this downtown? I have a feeling Lydia wouldn’t appreciate it.”

This time Derek is the one following Stiles as he leads them back to the living room. Stiles takes a seat, sprawling across the sofa in a way that could almost read as an invitation. “I don’t know why Isaac was there. I didn’t even know about that place until Lydia called me today.”

“Was Isaac seeing anyone?” At Stiles’ look, he amends, “Anyone he wasn’t being paid to see? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. We were friendly.” Stiles wrinkles his forehead. “I thought we were becoming friends, but Isaac mostly kept to himself. Played his cards close to the vest.”

“How did Lydia find Isaac?”

“Lydia,” Stiles, says with an almost dreamy quality. “Lydia is . . . unique, and she knows a lot of people, meets a lot of people. Isaac came here to make it big. Stepped off the bus with a handful of change in his pockets and suitcase full of dreams, just like the rest of us. And, at least this way, we still get to act, don’t we?”

“Tell me more about her.” Derek feels like he’s missing something key.

“She’s waiting for you to name your price.”

“Stiles.”

“Yes, Detective?”

“Don’t fucking try to bribe me or entrap me, or I’ll make both your lives a living hell, is that clear?”

Stiles smiles, wide and pleased. Derek thinks it’s the most honest reaction he’s seen from Stiles, and it warms something inside him.

“I remember you from the liquor store.” He tilts his head to the side and stares at Derek for a beat. “You have a thing for protecting kids, don’t you? Or do you just like to play the hero?”

“Fuck you.”

Stiles laughs, but refrains from making the obvious joke. Instead he says, “There’s blood on your shirt.”

“Probably.”

“Is it yours?”

“No.”

“Were you being a hero, Detective Hale?”

Derek swallows, because one thing is for sure. He didn’t feel like a hero at the Jungle.

“No.”

“But you did it anyway. Made someone bleed, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like making people bleed, Detective?”

“If they deserve it.”

“Did they deserve it today?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Didn’t stop you though, did it?”

Derek hates the direction this is taking, so he lashes out. “Do you enjoy it? Fucking people for money?”

Stiles shrugs. “Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t.”

“But you do it anyway.”

“Yes. It pays well, and Lydia is good to us.”

“Good to you? She has you cut to look like other people, and pimps you out to pedos!”

“She didn’t have me cut. This is me. Well, other than the clothes and hair at any rate. Back home, no one gave me a second look. Here . . . well. You know, you’re the first guy in a long time who hasn’t told me I look like the kid on _Justice Files_?”

“I’ve met that kid. You’re better looking.” After a beat he adds, “And older.”

Stiles smiles at that. “Anyway, Lydia also makes sure we don’t get beat up, doesn’t let us do drugs, and helps us invest our money so we have something when we finally get out. Can you understand that? This isn’t the street, Detective. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get ready for my next client.”

Stiles gets up and walks Derek to the door. When he takes the glass from him, their fingers brush and the contact sends a shudder up Derek’s spine. As he walks out the door, he stops and looks at Stiles.

“I want to see you again.”

“Are you booking an appointment or asking me on a date?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Well, usually the men I date at least tell me their first name.”

Derek suddenly realizes how stupid this is. How unlikely it is that someone like Stiles would want to _date_ him. He’s being played by a whore. He has to be.

“Never mind,” he practically growls, and walks away to his car. From the safety of the driver’s seat he risks a glance, and sees Stiles watching him from his porch. Derek throws the car into gear and his tires screech as he speeds away.

*****************************

Danny and McCall pull up to the apartment Boyd confirmed. They see a newer sedan, and when they peek inside, they realize some of their fellow detectives have gotten there first. Danny curses.

He and McCall hear a noise up the driveway, in the garage. They move forward quietly, and see the car they’ve been looking for. At the same time, two of their fellow detectives, Meyers and Katashi—the captain’s men, Danny thinks—come out of the garage. Meyers nearly shoots Danny before he recognizes them.

“Find anything?” McCall asks.

“Yeah, two shotguns on the backseat, and three boxes of rounds, including wolfsbane rounds.”

Danny grins. “Thank fuck. Now I can get the hell out of vice.”

“This is our collar,” Katashi protests.

McCall interrupts before they really start squabbling. “I’m the ranking officer here, and we’re going to do this together. Got me?”

The other pair grudgingly agrees, and they make their way up the stairs. As soon as they kick the door in, Meyers takes aim. It’s only McCall’s werewolf quick intervention that stops him from shooting one of the suspects. The other perp in the room freezes and keeps his hands in the air.

They’re both Weres, and Danny recognizes the scent of the aconite they’re high on, notices their blown pupils. In this state, they won’t resist arrest. In fact, they go to their knees nice and easy like, compliant and relaxed. Danny can tell McCall is disturbed by the sight.

He quickly makes his way into one of the bedrooms and finds Daehler, passed out drunk on the bed. He has him cuffed before the guy even wakes up. An hour later, the three of them are in interrogation rooms. The top brass is all there—Captain Hale, the chief of police, the district attorney—and, Danny notes, so is Derek Hale. He can’t blame the guy, not if these guys are the ones that popped Argent.

McCall is good. Danny has to give him that. He’s playing the perps one off the other, tangling them up, making them think they’re rolling on each other. Of course, Daehler denied owning any guns, but a neighbor saw them burning their clothes in the incinerator. Why do that if you’re not destroying evidence?

“C’mon, Daehler,” McCall chides. “This is death penalty time. Why’d you do it? Were you high?”

“Hell no. I don’t touch that stuff. Those two idiots are the ones who like to trip on that wolfsbane shit. Not me.” And he promptly gives up his friends’ dealer.

McCall is ready to shift gears. He’s about to leave the interrogation room when he says, “You know, I mentioned the death penalty, and you haven’t even asked me what this is about. That just about screams guilty, don’t you think?”

Danny notes that Captain Hale and the other top brass are suitably impressed with the progress McCall is making. They should be. The kid is good.

He enters the room with the youngest perp. He may be a Were, but he’s young and still a little stoned. “Reddick, you need to give me something here. Daehler says the Eichen Coffee House was your doing, said you planned the whole thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reddick says.

“Personally, I think Daehler did it. But he says it was you who killed those people.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” The kid’s eyes are wide. Danny thinks he just may be telling the truth.

“Then what’d you burn your clothes for?”

The kid shakes his head. He’s starting to come down off the drugs, not really as compliant as before.

McCall leans forward, puts a little more force into his voice, and if Danny didn’t know better, he’d think McCall was an alpha.

“Tell me, Reddick. Which one of you shot the cop?”

The kid crumbles. “I didn’t shoot anyone! I just wanted to get laid. Just get laid. Didn’t mean to hurt her none, but the blood.”

“Who, Reddick? Who is she?”

But the kid is done. Gone. He’s rocking back and forth and his eyes are squeezed shut.

McCall leaves him and goes to the third.

“Did you kill the girl, Unger? You wanted Reddick to pop his cherry, but then things went bad, right? What did you do?”

Again, that force in McCall’s voice that almost makes Danny want to roll over and spread his legs for him. Then there is a loud crack, and Danny realizes Hale has snapped a chair in half, and before anyone can stop him he’s stormed the interrogation room and has Unger by the throat.

Pulling out his service revolver, he empties every chamber but one, then spins the cylinder.

“I know you smell the wolfsbane in these,” he tells the kid before shoving the gun in his mouth. “Where’s the girl?”

Click.

“Where’s the girl?”

Click.

Three other cops are holding McCall back. Danny notes that one of them is Captain Hale. He’s looking at his nephew with something like pride.

“Where is she?” Hale demands.

Finally the kid relents. He gives up a name and address.

Danny lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

*****************************

As soon as the car pulls up to the house, Derek turns to his uncle. “Give me a minute.” Then he’s off and around the back of the house. He hears Peter tell McCall that they’ll take the front. The delay is all the time he’ll need.

Derek slips into the house through the backdoor, silent and deadly. He passes a room and sees a naked girl tied to the bed. Her eyes widen when she sees him, but she nods and indicates the next room. He steps into the living room and finds the man he’s looking for, Sean Long. Before Long can react, Derek has leapt across the room and sunk his claws into Long’s neck, nearly severing his head. He wishes he’d had the time to make Long suffer, but he doesn’t. He takes a gun from his pocket, puts it in the dead man’s hand and pulls the trigger in the direction of the door.

By the time his uncle and McCall have entered through the front door, Derek has untied the girl and covered her. He senses his uncle watching him from the doorway of the bedroom, hears him order the uniformed officers to call an ambulance, but Derek’s eyes are on the girl. He’s whispering to her, soothing nonsense that he hopes will help in some small way.

When he hears the sirens, he wraps her gently in the blankets and carries her out to the ambulance. He lays her on the gurney and leaves her to the paramedics.

**************************

Scott runs up to Detective Hale. “Are we supposed to believe a naked man was sitting in his living room holding a gun?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Hale tells him. “Get out of my way.”

“How do you think this looks?”

“It looks like justice,” Hale seethes.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Hale lunges at Scott, gets a quick shot in before he’s dragged back by five other cops, at least one of which is another Were. Hale’s eyes have gone blue, he’s growling ferociously, and the other cops are having a very hard time holding him back.

The captain intercedes, grabbing Scott’s arm and pulling him a good distance from Hale. “You shouldn’t provoke him when he’s worked up.”

“He _always_ worked up, sir. He’s a brute and a thug.”

“He’s a man who has different methods to doing what’s right, Scott. What did you tell me? You didn’t need to do things the way your father did? Well, Derek does. He’s a good man, and a good cop. He’s just not your kind of cop. Steer clear of him.”

That’s when it comes in over the radio. The three suspects in the Eichen Coffee House massacre have escaped.

The station is in an uproar after the escape. Scott wracks his brain and then something tickles his memory. He goes and looks back at the transcript of the interrogations. There. There is it. The name of the dealer Daehler gave them. _Idiots. Get their fix from Kali. That was it, just the one name. She sells it all—weed, heroin, wolfsbane—also hides parolees when they run._

Scott does a search, and sure enough this Kali person has a rap sheet. Her last known address is listed. He looks around for Mahealani, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, Meyers pops up out of nowhere, but Scott takes it as a win that one more cop is willing to partner with him.

They’re armed, shotguns pumped and ready. As one, they kick in the door, startling those inside.

“Nobody move!” Scott shouts.

Later, he won’t recall who moved first, but Meyers takes out Reddick right before he takes two slugs in the chest. Meyers is dead before he hits the ground. Scott fires, once, twice, and Unger and Daehler are down. Kali takes off down the hall. Scott gives chase, firing a round that goes errant. His blood is boiling, eyes golden and fangs descended.

Kali looks at him, eyes flashing blue, before she ducks into the open elevator. The doors are closing just as Scott reaches it. He shoves the barrel between the doors, feels Kali grab the barrel and fires. He hears a body hit the floor. When the door opens, Kali’s lifeless eyes stare up at him, black oozes from the center of her chest, and Scott is both thankful for and disgusted by the efficiency of the department issued wolfsbane shells.

As Scott walks through the station, everyone is patting his back and congratulating him. Captain Hale is commending him, and calling him Shotgun Scott. Scott hates the name, and he just wants to wash the blood off.

When he finally gets away from everyone and goes to the bathroom, he scrubs his hands until they burn, then does the same to his blood splattered face. Scott grips the edge of the sink, clutching it like it’s the only thing holding him up.

He shot an unarmed suspect today. He lost control of his wolf and let his blood lust take over. Scott looks up into the mirror.

His eyes are blue.

***************************

Danny is reading the paper. The headlines are about the conflict between the planners of the new freeway and the city council. But what catches his eye is Lydia Martin standing behind the mayor at a picture of the original freeway announcement. He’s heard whispers about her, but nothing concrete. Still, it piques his interest.

Going with his gut, he goes to the city council hearing on the matter. He’s heading to the restroom on his way into City Hall, but stops behind one of the decorative panels when he hears, “I don’t care how much money Ms. Martin throws at this project. I’m not going to change my vote. I work for my constituents.”

Danny peeks around the corner, and sees a large man—a Were if he had to guess—hand the councilman, Tucker Cornish, a large envelope. Danny realizes that papers Cornish removes from the envelope are pictures, but he can’t see the images. What he _can_ see is Cornish blanch and shove the pictures back into the envelope. The Were walks away.

Inside the council meeting, there is a heated debate underway regarding the freeway project and its impact on local residents. When it is Cornish’s turn to talk, he says, “I know this may come as a surprise to many of you, but after careful consideration of all the facts, I now believe that this project has long term advantages that will benefit the people of our great city.”

Leaning back in his seat, Danny wonders just what Martin has on Cornish.

***********************

It’s stupid. Derek knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help himself. He sits in his car, across the street from Stiles’ duplex and stares. His hand goes to the key. He’s going to leave. He is. His hand falls listlessly back to his lap. It’s pouring rain, and Derek leans his forehead against the window, watching the way the rain blurs the light over Stiles’ porch.

There’s a burning in the pit of his stomach, and he knows, knows in his bones that it’s because of Stiles— _for_ Stiles. He’s so fucked.

He watches a car pull up to the apartment, and a woman exit. She makes her way to the front door and rings the bell. While she waits, she shakes out her umbrella and drops the hood of her cloak. Beautiful golden-brown hair tumbles down, and when she turns to the side to set the umbrella against the wall, Derek can see that she’s very pretty, and probably Stiles’ age.

Stiles answers the door and welcomes the girl with a kiss on the cheek. Derek feels his claws dig into his leg. As Stiles ushers her inside, his hand at the small of her back, he looks up and sees Derek sitting across the street.

The girl disappears inside, but Stiles stands there, staring. Derek turns the key in the ignition ruthlessly and drives away. He never sees the sad smile on Stiles’ face.

Instead, he goes to his favorite bar, the place he and Chris had spent hours at when Vicki first died. He sits and downs his scotch, and the man next to him tosses his paper to the side before he leaves. Derek looks over and sees a picture of the man he chased out of Stiles’ apartment. The headline reads: _Prominent City Councilman Changes Vote In Pivotal Decision._

**********************

It’s not that Scott doesn’t want the award—he does, he’s always wanted to measure up to his father’s legacy—it’s just that something about the case gnaws at him, and he’s still disappointed in himself. He’d known he’d probably take a life at some point while wearing the badge, he wasn’t that naive, but Scott had always thought that it would be in self-defense or in the defense of others. He never imagined it would be in a messy shootout, and involved unarmed suspects.

He steps up to the podium, and ducks his head when the police chief places the medal over his head. It feels like a heavy weight. The chief shakes his hand, and they pose for several pictures, before he’s allowed to make his escape of the podium.

Captain Hale greets him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Rafa would be proud,” he tells Scott.

Scott leans in to the captain and whispers, “Something feels off. I think I missed something.”

Hale slaps his back. “You just broke your first major case, one of the biggest cases in our department’s history, it’s normal to feel some insecurities. But what’s there to worry about? The suspects were caught, and forensics matched their weapons to the crime scene. You should be proud.”

Scott plays with the medal. He can admit to himself that he likes it. He’s worked hard to get where he is in the department, but still. “I don’t know. I feel like there are loose ends.”

**********************

Danny watches McCall and Captain Hale talking from across the room. Neither of them is paying attention to District Attorney Deucalion’s speech. It’s typical election year pap—hot dogs, apple pie, a down home slice of good old Americana and hypocritical morality.

“Hey, Mahealani! You’re back!”

Danny turns and sees Bobby Finstock walking up to him. “Hey Bobby, what’s the word?”

Bobby grins, “The word is you may have an axe to grind with the D.A. for getting you suspended at Christmas.”

Danny tilts his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but definitely curious about where Finstock is heading with this.

“Remember that kid from the wolfsbane bust? Jackson Whittemore?” Bobby jerks his chin. “There he is. Time off for good behavior.”

“And?”

“And, did you know Deucalion plays both sides of the fence? Obviously, it’s all very hush hush, but word is he likes a little play on the side, and his wife pretends she doesn’t know what’s going on, as long as it’s kept private.”

“What’s this got to do with Whittemore?”

Bobby grins. “Well, the studios aren’t as eager to hire him now. He’s agreed to meet with Deucalion tonight for a hundred bucks. Kid’s desperate.” He waves Whittemore over.

“Jackson, this is Danny.”

Jackson shakes Danny’s hand. “Have we met before?”

Danny grins. “Yeah.” God, the kid is either a moron or was more out of it the night of his arrest than Danny realized.

“Oh, was it at one of the parties? A Triskelion party?”

Intrigued, Danny nods.

“Ms. Martin throws good parties,” Whittemore continues.

“Yes, she does.”

“Booze, weed, and the prettiest whores I’ve ever seen. Ms. Martin is amazing,” the kid gushes.

Danny plays it for all he’s worth. “Yeah, she and I go way back.”

“She scares me sometimes.”

“How so?” Danny asks.

Whittemore shakes his head. “This is not what I imagined my life would be like when I left Iowa.”

Bobby comes back with stiff drink, and hands it to Whittemore. “Liquid courage. It’s showtime, kiddo.”

“I don’t know about this,” he says, hesitant.

“C’mon, kiddo. Don’t back out now. Think of it as an acting job. Besides, Danny here works on _Justice Files_. I bet he could get you a part, right, Danny?”

Danny nods noncommittally.

The kid downs the drink, and grimaces. Bobby gives him a gentle shove. “Go on. He’s free.”

They both watch Whittemore cross the room, and see Deucalion’s assessing look, then predatory smile. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“Here’s the address where they’ll be,” Bobby says as he hands Danny a card. “Just like always, you make the bust, I’ll make sure there are pictures and a headline.”

Danny plays with the card. “Bobby, why would a dame like Lydia Martin mess around with whores and dope?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Around.”

“I have no idea. Haven’t heard a thing about it. See you later.”

Danny pockets the card. It’s going to be a long night.

************************

Derek leans against the wall as Katashi works over some mid-level hustler from Philly. Every day more of them are coming out of the woodwork, trying to pick up or through the remnants of Gerard Argent’s drug empire. Many of them end up here, at the Jungle, strapped to a chair while Derek, or Katashi or, before he was killed, Meyers, worked them over with fists and rubber hoses.

Usually, Peter sends them back to where they came from with a few scars they’ll never forget. A message to the rest of the underworld that Los Angeles is not easy pickings, that the City of Angeles belongs to those with wings, not drugs and guns.

The guy in the chair, or Philly as Derek’s taken to calling him in his head, is screaming now, pleading. He’s given them whatever info he had. Derek can hear that the guy isn’t lying, and now this display of sadism is making him sick. He gives Peter a look before retreating to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. It doesn’t help him feel any better, and when he steps out of the bathroom, he just leaves. Philly’s screams chase him all the way to his car.

He pulls up to Stiles’ duplex. Derek hasn’t entirely thought it through, but he can’t keep away anymore. He sees someone leave and it takes everything he has not to get out of the car and scare them away, make sure they never come back. It takes him another five minutes to get of the car and walk to the door.

Derek hears Stiles straightening up, hears the clink of glasses being moved, the slither of fabric as the bed is made. He knocks.

Stiles comes to the doors, “Did you forget some—”

Derek just stands there, staring, like a dumbstruck kid with a crush.

“I wondered when you’d come back, Detective Hale,” Stiles tells him.

“Derek,” he blurts out, then looks down and blushes. “My name, it’s Derek.”

Stiles leans against the door. “Hi, Derek.” His voice is soft and welcoming.

Derek looks back up at him, and he doesn’t know what Stiles sees in his face, but his expression softens, loses all trace of teasing.

“Give me a minute, okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods, and Stiles retreats inside and turns off the lights. Then he steps out onto the porch, shutting the door behind him.

“C’mon.” He takes Derek by the hand and leads him upstairs. Stiles unlocks the door and they walk into the apartment. Stiles closes the door behind them and leans against it as Derek looks around.

Now the coldness downstairs makes sense. It’s a set, a high class hotel room. This, this is where Stiles lives, who he really is, and it warms something in Derek to know that Stiles brought him here. There are books everywhere, and pictures on the wall, including a man in a sheriff’s uniform, with what can only be a grade school aged Stiles standing next to him with a gap-toothed smile.

“My dad,” Stiles explains. “Sheriff of Beacon Hills. It’s where I’m from.”

He walks up behind Derek, and eases his jacket off him. Derek tenses when Stiles’ hands skim over his shoulder holster, but Stiles takes it in stride. He slides his hand down to Derek’s and pulls him toward the bedroom. Derek stands in the doorway as Stiles undresses, watching silently, riveted as each inch of pale skin is revealed to him. When he’s finally naked, he comes to Derek, cups his face and kisses him.

Derek is still, rigid for a moment, because he can’t believe this is happening, but then his brain and his body catch up and he’s kissing Stiles back, until they’re both panting and hard. Stiles pulls him to the bed, and sits on the edge as Derek finally removes his holster, and his shirt. Stiles’ nimble fingers make quick work of Derek’s belt and the fly of his pants, before pushing them and Derek’s boxers down. His fingers skim down Derek’s ass, and back up and over Derek’s hips, before he leans forward and takes Derek into his mouth.

He suckles the tip at first, his tongue testing and tasting, before sliding down the length of it, slow and wet. Derek makes a choked off groan and curses softly under his breath. His hand slips to the back of Stiles’ neck, just touching, petting him, as Stiles begins to work up and down Derek’s cock. It’s tender and perfect, and Derek feels like maybe he’s losing himself.

Stiles backs off and looks up at Derek. His lips are puffy and red, spit-slick and shiny. Derek traces his lips with his thumb, before leaning down to kiss him. They scoot back and up the bed, and Stiles lies back, one arm crooked above his head, the other tracing the line of Derek’s jaw. Derek leans over him, drinking in the sight of him, trying to memorize it in case this is the only time he gets to.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Stiles tells him.

“I’m just wondering if you’re going to disappear.”

“You’re wondering if Lydia put me up to this.” It’s not a question. Stiles shakes his head. “She didn’t. This is just me. Just Stiles. Not some knock-off TV star. I’m here because of you, Derek. Because I like _you_.”

It’s enough for now, and Derek captures Stiles’ mouth once more. His hand roams across Stiles’ body, feeling the planes and angles of him, enjoying the sounds that his touches rip from Stiles’ mouth. He nuzzles down and across Stiles’ jaw, behind his ear, and along his neck, and Derek doesn’t know if Stiles understands what it means to a wolf when Stiles arches his head back and bares his throat to Derek. Derek takes the skin between his teeth and lips, and works it until he’s left a small bruise. If this is the only time, he wants his mark there, even if it won’t stay.

Stiles lets out a desperate sob at the sensation. “God, Derek, please . . .”

Derek’s mouth trails down Stiles’ chest, biting and sucking at his nipples until they’re taut and red, and Stiles is writhing beneath him. Stiles wraps a leg around Derek and pushes until they’ve rolled over and he’s straddling Derek’s hips. His eyes are wide and searching as they look down at Derek, open and honest.

He leans down and kisses Derek, then whispers, “I want you inside me.”

Derek bucks his hips involuntarily at that, and growls low and delighted. “Yes,” he hisses, as he fights to keep his fangs from descending, fights the instinctual _minetakeown_.

Stiles reaches over and grabs a tube of slick. He reaches behind himself, and uses some. It’s quick and Derek isn’t sure it’s enough, but then he grips Derek’s prick and applies it in one go, before positioning himself over it, and slowly sinking down.

Derek claws the bed as he fights the need to thrust hard, to pound into Stiles and come. He reaches above and grips the headboard, not trusting himself. “Stiles,” he grinds out. “God, Stiles,” and he chokes on the words. He clenches his eyes shut as he tries to exert control over every screaming instinct he has.

And then Stiles moves. He lifts and lowers himself, slow and easy, small noises punching out of him every time he fully seats himself on Derek’s cock. “Derek,” he whispers. “Derek, Derek, Derek. Touch me. God, touch me, please,” he begs.

Derek’s eyes fly open and he sees that Stiles looks as wrecked as Derek feels. He lets go of the headboard and grips Stiles’ hips, helping him move over Derek, thrusting up into him every time Stiles grinds down. He moves a hand to Stiles’ cock, which is wet and slick, and watches as it slides in and out of his fist, until Stiles cries out and comes, thick in Derek’s hand. Stiles pauses, and catches his breath, which hiccups at the sight of Derek licking Stiles’ come from his fingers.

Stiles surges forward and kisses Derek, tasting himself on Derek’s lips and tongue, and yelps when Derek flips them over. He hitches Stiles’ legs over his shoulders, and begins to thrust—hard, like his instincts demand. Stiles makes broken sounds of pleasure, and Derek can see his still semi-hard cock twitch in an effort to get hard again. Derek wants to see Stiles come again, would love to just keep fucking him until he does, but he’s too far gone now and so he chases his own pleasure. He leans forward, bending Stiles in half and kissing him as he thrusts and comes with a long, low growl.

***************

Danny pulls up to the address Finstock gave him, but there’s no sign of Bobby. He waits a few minutes, then gets out and checks out the small bungalow. The door is ajar, and Danny feels something very wrong in the pit of his stomach. He pulls his service revolver out, and slowly makes his way inside.

It’s quiet and mostly dark, save for light spilling from the bathroom. It appears to be empty, until he trips over something and realizes it’s a body. No one else is there, so he turns on the lights, and sees that it’s Whittemore. The kid’s throat has been cut. He stares up at Danny with dead-doll eyes.

“Fuck,” Danny whispers. “Fuck.” He bolts from the scene, heading to Finstock’s. When he gets there he bangs on the door loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“Hold your horses!” He hears Bobby shout.

The lock turns and the door opens. Danny shoulders his way into Bobby’s house.

“What’s up, Danny? Got a hot scoop?”

“Stop fucking around, Bobby.”

“What are you talking about, Danny?”

“What, the fuck, happened with Whittemore and Deucalion?”

“Whittemore and Deucalion? Nothing! Didn’t you get my message? The kid couldn’t go through with it.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I just found him with his throat slit on the floor of the bungalow you sent me to.”

“Holy shit! Let me get my camera. This is a great story,” Finstock moves to get it.

Danny grabs him by his robe. “You sure Deucalion didn’t go with him?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I saw the kid get in a cab. Took my hundred and backed out. I lost out on this deal.”

“ _You_ lost out?” Danny shoves him away in disgust and leaves.

Bobby yells out, “C’mon, Danny! Don’t be like that.”

Danny heads to a bar and orders a bottle. He’s so disgusted with himself, that all he wants to do is crawl inside and never come out.

**********************

Stiles is sprawled across Derek’s chest as they lie in bed. His fingers are tracing random patterns over Derek’s skin. He skims across an old scar.

“What’s this from? I didn’t think Weres could get scars.”

Derek doesn’t know why, but the words tumble from his lips. “When I was twelve, my best friend was a girl named Paige. She was the smartest person I knew—other than my mom—and she was so beautiful . . .” he trails off for a moment, then looks at Stiles. “Everyone thought we were going together, but we weren’t. She was like my sister.

“One day, we were studying together at her house after school. Her dad came home early, and he was drunk. He was never nice, but when he was drunk . . . it was bad. Real bad. He started yelling at us. Accused us of fucking, called her a whore. He pulled a knife, and I just jumped in front of her.

“It didn’t stop him anyway. After I went down, he kept swinging. Cut Paige up pretty bad. When he realized what he’d done, he panicked and locked us both up in the basement. It took three days for the truancy cop to find us. Paige died on the second day. The blade was laced with wolfsbane, it’s why I was so weakened and why it scarred.”

Derek’s mouth clicked shut. He hadn’t talked about it—hadn’t said Paige’s name aloud—in years.

“Is that why you became a cop?” Stiles asks. “Why you worry so much about kids getting abused?”

Derek’s jerky nod is the only answer he can give. He’s said too much already.

“Do you like it? Being a cop.”

“I used to,” he tells Stiles. “But lately . . . it’s all strong arming. I want to get back to solving cases, but the captain has me doing other things.” His brows furrow. “There’s something wrong with the Eichen Coffee House case. I know there is, but I just can’t see what. McCall gets a commendation for shooting the wrong guy, and whoever killed my partner is still out there, laughing at us. I’m just not smart enough to figure it out.”

Stiles snorts. “Yes you are. You found Lydia. You found me. You can figure this out, too.”

“Just like that?”

Stiles smile is soft and confident. “Yeah, just like that.”

Derek rolls them over and kisses him. He wants one more time before he goes.

******************

Scott is looking at the files on the three suspects. Daehler and Unger had long rap sheets, but Reddick? Reddick was clean as a whistle until this. The kid wanted to get laid, but why the coffee shop? Where’s the connection? Something isn’t coming together. He looks through the daily logs for the week of the murders. There’s no report of anyone firing guns. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He needs to talk to the girl. Scott goes to the hospital, and she’s being released. He wheels her out.

“Kira, I have a question. What time did they leave you? You said it was around eleven. Was that right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said eleven. You said you were sure it was eleven.”

She looks at him. “I said what I said because no one would care if some Japanese girl got raped, but they sure as hell care when a bunch of white people in a coffee shop die. I did what I needed to for justice.”

Her words echo in Scott’s head, and he hears Hale’s voice. _It looks like justice_!

******************

Derek goes down to the forensics lab first thing in the morning. Alan Deaton looks up from a microscope.

“Derek Hale,” he says, getting up and extending his hand. “What brings you here?”

Derek shakes his hand and says, “I have a couple questions about the Eichen Coffee House. About Chris.”

“Bad luck, that bit of business,” Deaton says.

“Maybe,” Derek muses. “Anything about it strike you as odd?”

“Other than the excessive amount of rounds used? Not really. The pictures are here.” Deaton gestures to a stack of photos on a side table. “I was about to box everything up since the case is closed.”

Derek looks over the pictures. “Whose jacket is on this chair?”

“The Were kid, Lahey.”

Deaton pulls Lahey’s picture from the stack.

“And whose blood is this?” Derek points under the table.

Deaton looks closer and notes the evidence number. “One second.” He pulls up a record and looks it over. He mutters to himself, and Derek swears he hears him say, “Really?” before he double checks.

Derek moves closer and looks over Deaton’s shoulder, but he can’t make heads or tails of the scientist’s notes. “What is it?”

Looking over at Derek, Deaton replies, “It’s Argent’s blood.”

“So they were sitting together?” Derek asks with frown.

“Seems like,” he replies.

Derek stares some more, then remembers. _“Can’t. Got a big meeting.” “Oh? You meeting someone?” “Something like that.”_

“Thanks, Alan.”

“Sure, Derek. Anytime.”

Derek turns to leave.

“Wait, there was something else. I can’t believe I forgot.” Deaton reaches into a box and pulls out an evidence bag. “Earplugs. At least one of the perps was wearing them.”

“That doesn’t sound like a robbery gone wrong, does it?” Derek asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Sounds more like someone went in there planning to shoot the place up.”

When Derek pulls up to the Lahey residence, Mr. Lahey is putting out the garbage. Derek steps out of the car and flashes his badge.

“Mr. Lahey, I’m Detective Hale—”

“Yeah, I remember you. From the morgue. I have nothing more to say to you.”

Derek is undeterred and follows Lahey up the walkway. “I don’t give a fuck. You were a shit father when Isaac was alive, the least you can do is give me five minutes to figure out why he’s dead. Now, we could do this out here, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want the neighbors talking about all the ways you abused your son.”

Lahey blanches, but leads Derek inside the house.

“At the morgue, you said you didn’t like Isaac’s boyfriend. Why was that?”

“Isaac wasn’t . . . he didn’t . . . he wasn’t a sissy.”

“I don’t give a damn who or how he fucked.” And God, how Derek wants to punch the man in the face. “Now, the boyfriend?”

Lahey’s lips thin, but he replies, “He was older. Much too old to be spending time with a kid like Isaac. They were here with a woman one time, and they were arguing. Neighbor told me they raised a ruckus.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Sargent, or Largent or something.”

“Argent?”

“Yeah. Could be.”

Derek holds out a picture of Chris. “Is this him?”

“Yeah, that’s him. See? Too old. I should’ve been tougher on the kid. Then he wouldn’t have—”

Derek is seconds away from throttling the man. “The fight, when the woman was here. Was it inside the house or outside?”

“Outside, I think. But there was a bloody towel in the bathroom when I got home, and the neighbor said Argent kept going under the house.”

“Under the house? Where’s the crawlspace?”

Lahey shows him the entry to the crawlspace, then leans against the house and lights a cigarette.

Taking off his jacket and using it to cover his nose and mouth, Derek crawls under the house. There’s a strong smell of rotting flesh, and in moments he’s found a body wrapped in a sheet. He tugs it loose and sees a spill of blond hair. Female, but the face is already decomposing. He searches the body and when he feels a shoulder holster, he knows. Derek finds a small purse, and the ID inside confirms it: Erica Reyes.

Derek crawls back out and Lahey asks him if he found anything.

“Yeah. A great big fucking rat.”

**********************

Scott walks into the morgue. Deaton looks up from the body he’s working on. Scott thinks he recognizes the stiff. A two bit actor that Mahealani busted back around Christmas.

“Hey, you’re in time for the corpse of the week.”

“Yeah?”

Deaton flicks his chart. “Whittemore, Jackson. 20. Last supper was a burger and fries. Last fuck, based on the semen in and on him, was about thirty minutes before he died.”

Scott isn’t all that interested. “Anything else strike you about the Eichen case?” he asks.

“Other than you guys won’t let it go? No.”

“What do you mean?”

“Derek Hale was in here earlier asking some questions.” Deaton looks at Scott. “You know, he’s not as dumb as people like to think he is.”

“Tell me what you told him.”

An hour later he rings the bell at the Lahey residence. Mr. Lahey answers the door, and then shakes his head. “Oh no. No more. I’m done talking to cops.”

“Another cop was here?”

“Yeah, earlier today.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He asked questions about Isaac’s boyfriend. Checked under the house.”

“Under the house?”

“Nothing wrong, just a dead rat.”

“A rat?” Scott walks over to the crawlspace, and the smell hits him.

When he crawls back out a short time later, he calls it in, and follows the ambulance all the way to the morgue. He tells Deaton he needs an immediate ID.

Back at the station, he searches out Mahealani.

“I need you to follow Derek Hale.”

The other detective laughs at him. “I’m not crazy or stupid.”

“This isn’t a favor. It’s an order.”

“Why?”

“I need to know what he knows. Something about the Eichen case isn’t right.”

“You really want to mess around with the case that made you?” Mahealani asks him.

“I think . . . I think I fucked up,” Scott admits.

Mahealani snorts a laugh. “You’re not the only one. Look, I’m not your priest or your mommy, McCall. I can’t absolve you or fix it for you.” He begins to walk away.

“ _Kanima_ ,” Scott says to his retreating back.

Mahealani turns around. “What?”

“ _Kanima_. When I was ten my dad came across a mugger when he going to buy flowers for my mom. He was shot four times in the chest. My dad didn’t even have a chance to pull his weapon, and the monster was never caught. Never even got an ID.” Scott shrugs. “I was ten and I needed a name. _Kanima_ sounded like the perfect name for a monster.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“ _Kanima_ is the reason I became a cop. I wanted to catch the monsters that kill kids’ dads and get away with it. I think I haven’t really been good about that lately. How about you? Why’d you become a cop?”

Mahealani shrugs. “I don’t remember anymore.” He looks at Scott like he’s a puzzle to solve. “What are you playing at here, McCall?”

“No game, Mahealani. I just want to solve this case.”

“I thought you already did.”

“Yeah, but this time I want to do it right.”

“Okay. I’ll help. But I want credit.”

“You got it. Although, I think we’ll have to share it with Hale. I don’t think we can figure this out without him.”

********************

It takes Derek the better part of the day, but he finally tracks down one of Argent’s old cronies—the guy who tipped him off on Christmas Eve. Derek walks into a bar and sits down next to him.

“Derek Hale. How are you buddy?”

Derek growls at him. “I’m not your fucking buddy, you piece of shit. Got it?”

The guy gulps and nods.

“Erica Reyes. She used to work at the Hollywood Station, before she was turned. Now she works for Lydia Martin. You remember her?”

“Should I?”

“Your jacket lists her as a girlfriend. So quit playing smart with me, and tell me about her.”

“Yeah, she was my girl, until she got bit. Then she didn’t want me no more. Last I heard, she was working private security, but that was a few years ago. I ain’t seen or heard from her since.”

Derek can hear the lie. He grabs the guy’s thigh, and digs his claws in. “I know you’re lying to me right now. Unless you want me to open up your femoral artery and watch you bleed out, you’d better start talking.”

The guys whimpers in pain. “Before she disappeared, rumor has it she was trying to move twenty pounds of wolfsbane.”

Derek snorts in disbelief. “Bullshit. Where would someone like her get that much wolfsbane?”

“One of Argent’s old lieutenants was killed a while back. His entire stash disappeared.”

“Where’s the wolfsbane now?”

“I don’t know.”

Derek twists the claw in the guy’s leg.

“Ow, fuck! I don’t know, okay?”

Derek can hear the truth in his words. He slaps a twenty on the bar. “You should see to those cuts,” he tells the guy, then heads out.

He doesn’t see Danny Mahealani on the pay phone across the street.

***********************

Scott slips into the passenger seat of Mahealani’s car, startling him.

“Fuck! You know, you Weres should come with a goddamned bell!”

“What are we doing here?” Scott asks.

Mahealani is holding a pair of binoculars. “Upstairs apartment. Hale got here about twenty minutes ago, knocked on the door downstairs, then they went up.” Mahealani offers Scott the binoculars, but he doesn’t need them—the drapes are open and the light is on. Mahealani shrugs and brings them back up to his face.

They see Hale sitting on the couch, and a moment later a kid—no, not quite a kid, but a young man who looks even younger—emerges from the bathroom. The guy is beautiful. All long, lean lines, and a pretty mouth. His hair is wet and his skin glistens. When Hale looks up, the young man drops his towel and beckons him. Hale is up and has him in his arms in seconds. They kiss, and then Hale’s hands grab the man’s ass and lift him. The man easily wraps his legs around Hale’s waist, before Hale walks them into the bedroom and kicks the door shut.

Mahealani whistles. “Hale certainly isn’t as dumb as he lets people think he is.”

Scott’s brow furrows. “First a Johnny Sheffield look alike, now this guy? Doesn’t he look like that kid on your show?”

“Not as young, but yeah, he looks like Tommy,” Mahealani agrees. “Triskelion. Gotta be.”

“What?”

“Triskelion: All Your Fantasies Come True—high class whores, some cut to look like movie stars. Others are cut or turned to stay young looking. Lydia Martin runs them. The D.A. is involved, but I’m not sure exactly how.”

Scott stares at the upstairs apartment a moment longer, but there’s nothing to see. “Let’s go talk to her.”

“You’re the one that solved the Eichen Coffee House case,” Ms. Martin says to Scott. “And you,” she looks at Mahealani, “you’re the celebrity cop. The one that works on _Justice Files_.”

“And you’re the woman who runs whores.”

“Crude,” Ms. Martin answers with disdain. “But accurate.”

“What do you know about the Eichen case?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Detective Hale.”

“Hale was here?”

“You boys need to communicate a little better.”

Scott’s done being nice. “Ms. Martin, out of deference to your status, we came to you here, but if you prefer, we can take this downtown. I’m sure you’ll have no problem explaining your presence to the reporters that seem to love following Detective Mahealani here around.”

Ms. Martin rolls her eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Detective. Like I told Detective Hale, I provide a service with legal aged employees. I treat them well, don’t let anyone abuse them, and make sure they’re well compensated.”

Mahealani cuts in. “The one that looks like Tommy Hidgens, he one of yours?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?” Scott asks.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

When Mahealani looks at her in disbelief, she says, “That’s the name he gave me. It’s the only one I have for him.”

“Why is he seeing Detective Hale?”

She snorts delicately. “Do I need to explain the birds and the bees to you, Lieutenant McCall? Why does anyone date? Now, I’ve been patient and accommodating. If you would like any more of my time, or have anything else to ask me, call my lawyer. Good day, gentlemen.”

“That woman is an ice queen,” Mahealani complains as they get into the car.

A call comes in over the radio.

“McCall here.”

“Alan Deaton wants to talk to you. He says he’s got that ID you wanted.”

“Tell him I said to tell Detective Mahealani who it is.”

“Copy that, Lieutenant.”

Mahealani looks at him. “Okay, I’m going to look at a corpse. Where are you going?”

“I’m paying a visit to Mr. Stilinski.”

“I get the corpse and you get the hot guy? Life isn’t fair,” he mutters as Scott puts the car in gear.

After dropping Mahealani off, Scott goes to Stilinski’s apartment. He’s about to go up the stairs, when he hears movement in the downstairs apartment. A peek in the window shows him Stilinski. He knocks.

When Stilinski opens the door, Scott takes a moment to appraise him. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous than he looked the night before. His hair and attire are clearly geared toward cultivating a younger look. Scott feels gut punched, attraction warring with how wrong it seems.

“Mr. Stilinski? I’m Lieutenant McCall.”

“You’re the one Derek’s told me about.”

“He talked to you about me?” Scott’s surprised. “What did he tell you?”

“He said you had something to prove, like you were competing with your dead father. Said you’d roll on just about anyone, but that you were really smart.”

Scott doesn’t reply to that, just follows Stilinski into the apartment.

“Lydia Martin made you, didn’t she? Had you cut? Different clothes? How to style your hair, just so? It works,” Scott gestures. “You’ve definitely accomplished the look you were going for. But I need information from you, and if I don’t get it, I’ll bring her down.”

Stilinski laughs derisively. “Lydia can handle ten of you, Lieutenant McCall. _I,_ can handle you.”

Scott doesn’t think he’s misreading the insinuation in the comment, but he watches the way Stilinski’s pants mold to his ass as he walks over to the bar.

“Care for a drink, Lieutenant?”

“Whiskey.”

Stilinski pours the drink, then slinks back to Scott. When he hands Scott the drink, he says, “You forgot something else about Lydia.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

Leaning forward Stilinski whispers in his ear, “Lydia also taught me how to _fuck_.”

The way he says it is so filthy, that this time there’s no way Scott misses the suggestion, but he steps back. Stiles huffs out a small laugh.

“You’re intriguing, Lieutenant.”

“How’s that?”

“Derek hates you. I like figuring out why.”

Scott feels his lip curl.

“Oh, you don’t like that do you, Lieutenant? You don’t like that he’s told me about you, that I know more about you—that _he_ knows more about you—than you know about me. You’re used to having the upper hand, aren’t you?”

“Don’t push me, Stilinski. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Stilinski bites at his lower lip, then licks it. Scott is mesmerized by the action. Stilinski is tapping into every turn on Scott has, hard. “Like you push, Derek? You don’t seem to know what he’s capable of either.”

“Stop talking about Hale,” Scott growls. His drink drops to the floor and he pulls Stilinski into a rough kiss, before walking him back and pinning him to the wall. Scott can smell Hale’s scent still there, under the soap and cologne. He hates it; he bites and licks at the pale neck in front of him to cover the scent.

Tearing at their shirts, Scott mouths every piece of skin that’s revealed to him. Stilinski arches against him, then slithers down to his knees. His hands go to Scott’s belt, and soon Scott’s got his pants down around his ankles and his cock encased in sleek heat. He looks down and Stilinski’s looking up at him, red lips stretched wide around Scott’s cock.

“Fuck,” Scott whispers. He traces that sinful mouth with his thumb, and watches whiskey colored eyes flutter shut; he feels moans vibrating around his dick. Scott can’t help but buck his hips at that. His prick hits the back of Stilinski’s throat—and Stilinski just . . . he just takes it.

Scott senses the start of an orgasm tingling at the base of his spine, but he doesn’t want to come yet. He wants to get in—wants _inside_ Stilinski. Wants to mark him up and fill him. Erase Derek Fucking Hale.

Scott tangles his hand in Stilinski’s hair and tugs him off his cock so he’s sitting back on his heels and looking up at him. Silinksi’s lips are puffy and his face is flushed. He smirks at Scott, and Scott wants to wipe that smirk off his face.

He pulls Stilinski up and spins him to face the wall, pinning him there with the weight and strength of his body. Scott makes quick work of Stilinski’s pants, then puts his fingers in that sinful mouth and says, “Suck.”

When his fingers are good and wet, Scott slips them between Stilinski’s legs and breaches him with two at once. They go in slick and easy, and Stilinski lets out a wanton moan as Scott twists his fingers. Scott doesn’t stop to think about why a whore is ready for him.

“Gonna fuck you now,” Scott tells him.

“Yeah,” Stilinski says on a breathy moan, and tilts his hips in offering.

Scott pushes in, one long easy glide, until he’s fully seated. Stilinski’s fingers scrabble against the wall, and he’s hot and tight around Scott, whose wolf is preening about mounting Hale’s boy. Scott pauses and rests his forehead between Stilinski’s shoulder blades, trying not to come right away.

“What are you waiting for? Fuck me. C’mon, fuck me,” Stilinski demands. He tries to move his hips.

Scott grips Stilinski’s hips and begins pounding into him. It’s hard and fast, and Scott’s probably using a little too much strength on a human, but Stilinski keeps making these desperate sounding noises, like he loves it. Scott slips a hand down and jerks Stilinksi off, until he’s crying out and shooting against the wall, and that’s it for Scott as well. He thrusts a couple more times and then he’s coming with a nearly feral snarl.

Scott pulls up his pants and walks on shaky legs to the couch, where he sprawls inelegantly. Stilinski finds his boxers and shirt and shrugs them on, before adopting a similar pose on the opposite sofa.

“How was it?” Scott can’t help but ask through a grin.

“Oh, you were amazing. The best, ever.”

Scott laughs. “You almost sound sincere.”

“I did come to L.A. with dreams of acting stardom,” Stilinski replies with a shrug. Then he looks Scott right in the eyes, challenging. “But what you’re really asking, what you really want to know, is how you compare to Derek. You want to know if it was an act, or if I’m acting with him.”

He’s right of course, but Scott refuses to acknowledge it. Instead he asks, “What I want to know is if Lydia is having you see Derek as part of a payoff?”

“It really chaps your hide to imagine that I see Derek because I like him, doesn’t it?” Stilinski leans forward, “I see Derek, because he’s a good man, and no amount of bluff and bluster can hide that. I see Derek, because he loves me, Stiles, not a Tommy Hidgens look-alike, or the centerfold for a pedo-mag. Should I go on?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Does this make you hate him more?”

“I don’t hate him. I just don’t understand him. I don’t know how to—”

“How to use him? That is what you mean. You can’t figure out how to make him dance to your tune. How to best use him to your political advantage. So he’s a danger to you.”

“You don’t sugarcoat things, do you?”

“Only if you’re paying me to,” Stilinski responds.

“What about you? Is this what you—Stiles Stilinski—want from your life?”

“I came out here with big dreams, and learned a hard lesson about big dreams. I’m settling for something a little more simple.”

“This is simple?”

Stilinski laughs. “No, this is the path to simple. I’m not sharing my simple with you.”

“Why not?”

“If I’m not going to help you use Derek, why would you ever think I’d give you something to use against me?”

Scott doesn’t answer.

“You’re tougher and smarter than anyone gives you credit for, Lieutenant. They underestimate what an asshole you are.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“Like recognizes like, Lieutenant.”

“So, you, me, and Hale, we’re all alike?”

Stilinski shakes his head. “No. Derek is only tough on the outside.”

********************

It’s the middle of the night, but Danny knocks on Captain Hale’s door anyway.

The captain opens the door. He’s wearing a robe, but doesn’t look like he’d been sleeping. “This had better be good, Mahealani,” he says.

“Sorry to bother you, Captain, but there’s something I can’t work out, maybe you can help.”

“Come in. I’ll make some coffee.”

Danny sits down at the table, while the captain starts making coffee.

“Do you remember a woman named Erica Reyes? She worked at the station a few years back.”

“Blonde? Mousy?” Hale asks.

“Well, maybe she was mousy then, but she was turned.”

“She was a shit secretary. Why you asking?”

“Right before she was fired, she was working for you, Argent, and McCall. Anyway, Argent busted up a blackmail ring. Someone was running hookers, then getting pictures of them with prominent clients and using them for a little extra pay. Lydia Martin was implicated in it, but before the investigation could move forward, the charges were dropped because the evidence disappeared. You were the supervising officer at the time; does this ring a bell?”

“Why are you interested in such an old case?”

“It may be related to something McCall and I are investigating.”

“McCall is homicide. You’re narco. What could you both be investigating?”

The image of Jackson Whittemore’s body flashes through Danny’s mind.

“I fucked something up. I’m hoping I can make it right.”

Hale hands him his coffee. “You getting holy on me, Danny?”

“I don’t know, Captain.” He rubs his face. “Do you remember why you became a cop?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. But things aren’t as simple as they were then. Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

“No. Not yet. I wanted to see if you remembered anything before I went to McCall.”

“Good. Good,” Hale says, and takes a sip of his coffee, then makes a face. “Not enough sugar.”

The captain gets up and goes to the cabinet.

Danny doesn’t see the gun in Hale’s hand until after he’s been hit. He looks down at his chest in shock.

“Any final words, Danny?”

There’s a wet, sucking sound as Danny struggles for a breath before he gurgles his last: “ _Kanima_.”

**********************

Scott is stunned by the news of Mahealani’s death. All of them are. He listens to the captain speak.

“Danny Mahealani’s body was found in a dumpster near MacArthur Park early this morning by members of the sanitation department. He was killed by a single shot to the chest at close range. He was one of ours, and they threw him in the trash. Find whoever is responsible. Justice must be swift.”

When he steps down, he comes up to Scott. “Did Mahealani ever mention the word _kanima_ to you?”

It takes everything in Scott’s power not to panic. He can, however, answer truthfully. Mahealani never said the word _kanima_ to him. Scott looks at Captain Hale and shakes his head. “No, why?”

The captain sighs. “A tip phoned in this morning. I’d hoped it meant something.” He pats Scott on the back before walking away to talk to the reporters.

Scott keeps his expression neutral as he heads out of the muster room. As soon as he’s out of Hale’s periphery, he bolts for the bathroom, where he spends the next ten minutes quietly panicking and trying to figure out his next move. He can’t get over the fact that the captain killed Mahealani.

When he’s calmed down, he goes to the forensics lab. Deaton is there.

“I need to know everything you and Detective Mahealani spoke about yesterday. Everything.”

“There’s not much to tell, Lieutenant. I identified the body—Erica Reyes. She used to work for the department.”

“We got an ex-cop and a whore cut to look like Johnny Sheffield, dead at the Eichen Coffee House. Then we got an ex-police secretary dead. Two of the three are Weres.”

“And Mahealani on the slab in the next room over,” Deaton adds. “It’s a bad week to have worked at this station.”

Deaton gets up and grabs a framed picture. “Found this in the box of personal effects that were in Argent’s car.”

Scott’s eyes go wide. He points to the woman in the picture. “This her?”

“Yeah,” Deaton nods. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Did you show this to Mahealani?”

Deaton nods.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Scott mutters. “Thanks, Alan.”

***********************

“Derek, a word please.”

Derek follows his uncle into his office.

“What’s going on with you, kiddo?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t been your usual, shall we say, aggressive self of late. I need to know that I can still count on you for what I have planned.”

“I don’t understand. What do you have planned?”

Peter smiles. “Just know, that I have a vision for controlling the crime in this city. A vision that will reward us handsomely. It’s something that’s been in the works for a long time, and I believe it will come to fruition soon.”

“You’ve lost me, Peter.”

“Don’t worry about it now. We’ll discuss more when the time comes. For now, I need you—and your very aggressive and violent self—at the Jungle. Katashi is picking up someone that we believe has information on whoever killed Danny Mahealani. Can I count on you?”

The thought of one of their own being gunned down and thrown away like so much garbage incites him. “Of course,” Derek replies.

Peter pats him on the back. “I’m glad I can count on you.”

Two hours later Derek walks into the motel. There’s a man strapped to the chair, so, par for the course.

Peter says, “Derek, meet Bobby Finstock.”

Finstock pleads, “C’mon, you don’t need to tie me up. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Katashi smacks him in the back of the head.

“Tell us about Danny Mahealani,” Peter demands.

“What can I tell you? He’s winging with the angels now.”

This time Katashi punches Finstock in the side.

“Stop! I didn’t have anything to do with it! We were friends! I liked the guy. We’d exchange information. I’d get great copy, and he’d get brass worthy collars. It was win/win.”

Peter stares at him for a beat. “Fine. Then tell me about Lydia Martin.”

Derek’s been tuning out the interrogation, it’s been getting them nowhere, but at this, he starts.

“Why? You think Martin had something to do with it?” Finstock asks.

“Derek, please explain to Mr. Finstock that I don’t like it when people answer my questions with questions.”

Derek flexes and lets his eyes flash blue as he steps up to Finstock.

“Okay! Okay! Martin. She’s loaded. It started with daddy’s money, and she parleyed it into an empire of sorts—civic projects, like the new freeway—but she’s got some other side projects. Runs whores, and some people say drugs, too.”

“What else?” Peter demands.

“What do you want?”

“Derek.”

At Peter’s implicit order, Derek lets loose several blows to Finstock’s torso. The man gasps for breath.

“God, stop! Alright. There’s . . . blackmail. My trunk. Martin gets me to take pictures of some of her whores with their johns. There’s this cop and this hot piece of ass that looks like Tommy Hidgens—”

Derek sees nothing but red. He lifts the chair free of where it’s bolted to the floor, and shoves it to the side. Finstock lands with a grunt and a whine. He grabs for Finstock once more, but Peter and Katashi manage to restrain him, barely. Peter is half shifted in order to do so.

“Derek. Calm down,” Peter commands.

But it’s to no avail. All Derek can see is Stiles’ face, and what he believed was real. Stupid, he’s so stupid. He rips free of Peter and Katashi’s grasp and staggers outside. He spies Finstock’s car, and tears the trunk clean off its hinges.

Inside, he finds several envelopes. The first two mean nothing to him, nameless faces. The third . . . the third takes the knife already in his heart and twists it. Picture after picture, in all their high gloss glory, of Stiles and _McCall_. He stares at Stiles on his knees, looking up, his mouth . . . McCall’s fingers on Stiles’ hips as he fucks him . . . stares at the bruises on Stiles’ neck shaped just like teeth.

Derek gets in his car and speeds away.

************************

Peter looks at Katashi. “I wouldn’t want to be in McCall’s shoes right now for all the tea in China,” he states.

Katashi snorts.

“Damnit, Peter, I thought you were going to get me killed. Now untie me.”

Peter turns and looks at Finstock. A malicious smile teases the corner of his mouth.

“C’mon, Peter, untie me!”

“Peter? Guys? C’mon.”

Peter lets his eyes bleed blue, feels the ache in his gums as his fangs descend; lets his claws extend.

“Peter, we’re buddies! You, me, Martin. C’mon, don’t do this. Don’t—”

His pleas end in a wet gasp.

******************

Derek makes the drive to Stiles’ apartment in record time—despite the rain. He pulls up to the duplex with a squeal of wet tires, taking out one of the garbage cans as he slams on the brakes. By the time he’s out of the car, Stiles has come to the door and run downstairs.

The rain is drenching them both.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. “Come inside, it’s pouring!”

Derek refuses to budge. “Did you meet with McCall?”

Stiles’ heart rate picks up, but he doesn’t lie. “Yes. Come inside, we can talk about it.”

“Tell me about him.”

“What do you want know? He’s nothing like you. Nothing. He’s calculating and . . . and his sense of righteousness makes him callous.”

“Wow, you really got to know him, didn’t you?”

“Come inside, Derek. Please,” Stiles pleads. Rain drops are clumping his eyelashes, and his clothes are clinging to his body. He looks so sad and defeated.

Derek stalks forward. “What happened?”

Stiles sighs. “You know what happened.”

“You fucked him. You _fucked_ McCall. McCall!”

“I was trying to figure a way out of this situation! I thought if I did it, if I . . . that it could help you, that—”

“Help me? HELP ME?!” Derek lunges, fist balled and ready to strike. But he stops himself, an inch from hitting Stiles. His eyes have changed, and his fangs have descended. He’s riding the razor’s edge of rage.

Stiles tilts his chin up in challenge. “Go on. Do it.” The twin scents of guilt and anger emanating from him in waves.

Derek slams his fist into the stucco of the staircase. Once. Twice. Three times. Until part of it is crumbling beneath his fists. Stiles blinks, but doesn’t move. Waits for the punch that never comes. It takes everything Derek has not to hit him, but he isn’t like them. He may be violent, too violent by far, but he’s not. Like. Them.

Only when he shifts back again, Stiles tries to move toward him and slips on the bits of broken stucco and falls. He looks up at Derek, but Derek smells the blood before he even sees Stiles’ scraped cheek or the cut on his arm that still has a piece of plaster sticking out of it. Derek instinctively reaches for him, and this time Stiles flinches.

A howl-like sob tears from Derek’s throat and he leaps away. Clothes tear as he shifts and runs, leaving his car idling at Stiles’ curb. He doesn’t hear Stiles call his name. Doesn’t see him curl up small right there in the mud. Doesn’t see the tears and blood mixing with rain as it streaks his face.

Instead, he runs full tilt toward the station. He needs to find McCall.

*************************

Scott is in the records room. Papers and files are spread out across the large table, and drawers are opened and rifled through. His gaze settles back on the picture Deaton gave him and he taps it thoughtfully.

He looks up as he hears pounding steps, a growl and a shriek. Seconds later a partially shifted, partially dressed Derek Hale is crashing through the door and tackling him to the ground. They scuffle, but Hale has the upper hand, rage fueling him. The table is broken when Scott hits it. A window shatters when Hale tosses a file cabinet through it. Then Hale’s hands are around Scott’s throat. Claws are digging into the tender skin there, and Scott’s wolf finally emerges. Blue eyes flare and claws try to slash at Hale, but Hale has a longer reach. Finally, Scott manages to pull Hale’s gun from his holster and puts it right between his eyes. Hale pauses, but doesn’t let go.

“Why?” Scott wheezes.

Hale’s face contorts and he snarls. “Stiles.”

Eyes wide, Scott asks, “He told you?”   
Hale shakes his head, confused, but then starts squeezing again.

Scott scrambles. “Was it Peter? Did the captain tell you?”

_That_ makes Hale pause.

“He did, didn’t he? Did he tell you, or let you find out, like it was an accident?”

Hale stumbles back. Disbelief spreads on his face when he realizes he’s been played.

“The captain killed Mahealani. And it’s all tangled up with Argent and Reyes.”

Scott gets up on wobbly legs and hands Hale the photograph Deaton gave him. “They all went way back,” he says as Hale looks at the picture of a much younger Peter Hale, Erica Reyes, and Chris Argent. “He was Argent’s training officer. Reyes was his secretary.”

Hale slumps down against a wall, holding the picture. “I knew Chris and Reyes knew each other. Reyes was with Lahey Christmas Eve—the same night I met Stiles. Lahey’s father ID’d Chris as Isaac’s boyfriend, but Chris pretended not to know them.”

“Argent and Reyes? What were they up to?”

“I was rolling one of Gerard Argent’s old lieutenants for information. He says that right before Reyes went missing, she was trying to move twenty pounds of aconite. Remember when Argent’s right hand got taken out a while back? My snitch says the same amount of aconite went missing that night.”

Scott feels something clicking into place. “Reyes and Argent. A two man hit team, taking out Argent’s old lieutenants. They get lucky and stumble across a stash of aconite.”

Hale starts to catch up. “Christmas Eve, Chris told me he had something big lined up. Said he’d tell me later.”

“But before that,” Scott interjects, “Argent got greedy. Took out Reyes.”

“Eichen,” Hale says. “Chris went there to move the product. To meet a buyer.”

“But someone found out, and took them all out and stole the aconite for themselves, but it wasn’t the kids we arrested. I followed up the report about someone shooting off shotguns. There was no such report.”

“Who told you there’d been a report?”

“Your uncle.”

“He also was the one who said the kids’ car was spotted near the coffee shop,” Derek adds.

“And Meyers and Katashi were there when Mahealani and I showed up at the apartment.”

“Those are Peter’s guys. They didn’t find the guns,” Hale says.

“They planted them,” Scott finishes. “The Eichen massacre is your uncle’s doing.”

They’re quiet for a minute. Absorbing the enormity of the situation.

Scott adds, “Lydia Martin fits into this, too. That’s the part Danny figured out. Your uncle must be on her payroll.”

Hale’s eyes bleed blue again. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Be smart,” Scott says. “Let’s gather evidence. Build a case.”

“Why? So he can weasel out of it? That’s not justice. Besides, the Eichen case made you. You really gonna tear that down?”

“All day, and twice on Sunday,” Scott tells him. “Wanna help me?”

Hale stands and helps Scott up. Scott is already healing, but Hale’s face is grim.

“C’mon. Let’s go talk to Ms. Martin. We can play good cop/bad cop,” Scott says.

He doesn’t think he’s meant to hear Hale’s whispered, “But which one am I?”

*************************

They get to Martin’s house and ring the bell. When no one answers, they make their way around to the back. Derek notices that Martin’s tea set is sitting abandoned on the table, one cup lying on its side.

“Something’s wrong.” He goes to the backdoor and forces it open.

The house is eerily quiet as they make their way in.

McCall freezes. “I smell blood.”

Following the scent, they find Ms. Martin in a tub, wrists slit.

Derek steps up and presses his fingers to her throat, but there’s no pulse.

McCall steps into the bedroom and returns a moment later. “There’s a note.”

“Yeah?”

“Says she killed herself because Danny figured out the porn scam she was running.”

Holding up Martin’s limp right hand Derek says, “Well, she had help killing herself. Her finger is broken, and,” his eyes flash blue, “I can just make out some bruising. Someone forced her to hold the razor.”

“I’m starting to think we had it wrong. I think Lydia Martin was working for your uncle, not the other way around.”

“Or at least engaging in mutually beneficial blackmail.”

“He made sure you went after me. I think he’s tying up his loose ends.”

They look at each other, and at the same time say, “Stiles!”

Derek tries to call him, but there’s no answer. McCall calls in a favor from a friend at the sheriff’s department.

“He’ll be at Stiles’ in two minutes, and he won’t be under your uncle’s influence.”

When they get there, there’s a deputy waiting outside. “McCall,” he says.

“Parrish. Is he okay?”

“We took him to the station and we’re holding him under a different name. He’s fine, but someone went after him. He’s a little banged up, and there was some property damage.”

Shame suffuses, Derek, and he looks away.

“Thanks, Jordan.”

“You’re welcome. We’re cool now, right?”

McCall nods. “Yeah, we’re good.”

The deputy gets in his car and drives away.

“We need to see the D.A.”

“Why?”

“Mahealani thought he was involved in all of this.”

When they get to Deucalion’s office, the secretary tries to stop them, but they walk right in anyway.

“Should I call the police, sir?” she asks, worried.

“We are the police,” Derek snarls, flashing his badge.

Then both Derek and McCall stare at Deucalion.

“That’s alright,” Deucalion assures her. “I’ll speak with them.”

After she closes the door behind her, he asks them, “What do you want? And make it quick, I’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes.”

“I want you to bring in someone from a different department to tail Captain Hale, judicial authorization for a wiretap on his phone, and a warrant to look into his bank accounts.”

Deucalion laughs. “Based on what evidence?”

McCall looks at Derek. “A working theory.”

Deucalion laughs at them again. “You want me to help you investigate one of the most decorated men on the force based on what? A _hunch_? A gut feeling? I don’t think so.”

“Why?” McCall asks. “Because you’re afraid of the pictures he has? Maybe of you and a certain gorgeous actor? Which one of you was bending over when picture was taken?”

Derek can hear the change in Deucalion’s heartbeat. “You’re fishing. You have no proof.”

“The proof is lying in the morgue, with his throat slit, you son-of-a-bitch,” Derek snarls as he grabs the man by throat.

Deucalion scrambles at Derek’s hands. “Call him off, McCall!”

McCall shrugs. “Not sure I can. Now, tell us about Captain Hale.”

“I don’t know anything!” he wheezes.

Derek hears the uptick in his heart. “Lie.” He shoves Deucalion through the window of his office, and holds him upside down by his ankles. “Talk!”

“Please! Oh God! Alright! Yes. He has pictures of me with Whittemore! Now please, please—”

Derek shakes him. Change and a book of matches fall out of his pockets and plummet to the sidewalk below. “That’s a long way down, _Noah_.”

“Oh fuck, oh fuck! Okay, Hale is taking over Gerard Argent’s old rackets. The drugs, the whores, the gambling, all of it! He was using the pictures to make sure I couldn’t come after him, couldn’t prosecute him. He’s got dirt on everyone, not just me. He’s got the mayor, the chief of police, even a few city council members. Now God, please pull me up!”

Derek looks at McCall, who nods at him, so he pulls the trembling man back into the office and pushes him into his chair. Then, Derek leans forward and tightens the district attorney’s tie until he’s turning pink. “There, wouldn’t want you to look mussed for your press conference,” he tells him.

They’re about to leave Deucalion’s office when McCall turns and says, “If you tip off the captain, Detective Hale here is going to return—alone.”

Derek gives the man a feral grin and lets his eyes flash blue. McCall huffs a laugh at the squeak of fear Deucalion makes.

Outside, McCall tells him, “We need to talk to Stiles.”

Derek’s lips thin and he looks away.

“You don’t want to talk to him?”

Derek shakes his head. “You talk to him. I’ll see if I can trace the shotguns Katashi and Meyers planted. I wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled them out of evidence storage on a cold case.”

McCall stares at him for a beat. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I . . . just, yeah.”

************************

Scott walks into the sheriff’s station, and Stilinski sighs. “As if my day couldn’t get any worse.”

He looks at the butterfly bandage on Stilinski’s cheek. The unhappiness in his eyes. “Can we put that aside for a minute?” he asks. “I need to ask you about Peter Hale.”

Stiles just stares at him.

Scott continues. “He’s a police captain. We think he’s involved in all of this.”

Stilinski shrugs. “I have no idea. I just worked for Lydia.” He frowns a bit. “I always thought maybe someone else was involved, but I never met them.”

There is so much misery coming of Stilinski, that Scott can smell it. “I don’t know if it’s any of my business, or if it’ll even help, but . . . Derek hates himself right now.”

At first Stilinski doesn’t say anything, just looks at Scott. Then he gives Scott a sad smile and says, “I know exactly how he feels.”

“If things were different, if I, could I—”

“No,” Stilinski says softly. He looks out the window and says, “Really, no.”

It shouldn’t hurt, Scott thinks. But it does.

**************************

Derek is looking through boxes in evidence storage. He’s found a ballistics match for the shotguns in an old case, but a search through several boxes confirms his suspicion that the guns were taken from evidence and used to murder everyone at the coffee shop, and then frame the three boys. Derek sits down with a sigh. He can’t believe what Peter’s done. He knows Peter wasn’t lying when Peter told him why he became a cop, but he has no idea who this man is that Peter has become.   
Then again, he doesn’t understand the man he’s become either. What he did to Stiles. Objectively, Derek knows that it wasn’t his hand that actually injured Stiles, but his temper did. How is he any better than all those other assholes who beat their spouses and kids? How is he any better than Paige’s father?

His reverie is broken by a soft, female voice. “Detective Hale?”

Derek looks up and sees one of the secretaries looking back. “Yes?”

“Lieutenant McCall phoned. He wants you to meet him at the Jungle Motel. He says it’s urgent.”

When Derek arrives at the Jungle, he sees McCall parked in his car. Derek pulls up, and they both step out of their cars.

“What did you need to show me?” McCall asks.

“Me? I got a message telling me you wanted to meet me…” Derek trails off as they realize they’ve been set up.

They hear cars approaching and McCall heads for his car. Derek grabs his arm. “No time.

McCall nods and goes to the trunk of his car, where he pulls out a shotgun. Derek grabs his shotgun and an extra revolver from his glove compartment, and they duck into the building. They drag an old chair against the door, close the tattered curtains that still hang in the window, and shove a blood stained mattress against one of the windows in the back, and then they wait.

They hear the crunch of tires on gravel, and then the slam of car doors. Footsteps and whispers, and even with his enhanced hearing, Derek can’t make out what they’re saying. He can, however, hear the different footsteps and counts eight different sets. He looks at McCall and signals the number, then points to the room in back. McCall nods, and just as he starts to move the doorknob begins to turn.

McCall fires his shotgun at the door, blasting the entire thing away and revealing a body under it. It isn’t moving. All hell breaks loose and the men surrounding the building start firing at will. Derek and McCall return fire.

Derek counts two more hits, and he hears McCall take down another that was trying to get in through the back window. That’s four down. There’s a lull as everyone reloads, and Derek takes the opportunity to signal again to McCall. McCall nods his understanding, and Derek slithers out the window in the back, using the body below to cushion and silence his landing. He crawls under the raised foundation of the building. Above him he hears McCall fire, and then a thud. Five.

A pair of legs becomes visible from where Derek crawls on his stomach, and he fires, shattering an ankle. The man screams and when he falls, Derek fires two more times. Six. Derek rolls out from under the building and crawls back in through the window. He sees another man barrel in, but McCall unloads on him. Derek grunts in satisfaction as the body falls, and McCall turns and grins at him.

“I think we may make it out of here,” McCall says as he scrambles to reload his empty gun.

Derek is about to reply when he sees Peter stalk in, gun leveled at McCall. He doesn’t even think, just leaps across the room. The pain is searing—white hot. Wolfsbane. Derek grabs at his head and writhes on the floor. He tries to scream but it just comes out a sickening gurgle, until finally he passes out.

************************

Scott stares at Captain Hale in horror as the man shoots Derek again, then levels his weapon at him.

“I hate killing fellow officers, Scott.”

“Tell that to Argent and Mahealani.” He can still hear Derek’s heart beating sluggishly.

“Chris . . . well, Chris tried to sell my wolfsbane out from under me. Poor Danny just got in the way.”

“Why?” Scott asks. “Why all this?”

“Argent’s death left a power vacuum in this city, Scott. Organized crime all but eradicated with his death. I made sure it stayed that way, with the help of my boys and certain photographs. But there are still needs that must be serviced in our fair city. Gambling? Whores? There will always be a demand. Drugs? I’ll sell them to the weak, the people that don’t matter to anyone anyway. The Weres too weak to say no? I’ll use their compliance to help me. It’s better than they deserve for squandering the gift we’ve all been given, and the city will remain crime free. Victimless crimes and the anesthetizing of those who don’t matter.”

“And you pulling all the strings.”

“Of course. Your political games have no place in this, Scott. Your self-righteousness, and your sense of right and wrong don’t belong here. Absolutes have no place in this city.”

His finger tightens on the trigger, and Scott realizes he’s out of time. He sees Derek’s fingers twitch and a blade slide out of his sleeve.

“What about Derek?” he asks, scrambling for more time. “You shot your own nephew. Not just your men, but your blood. Your pack. What Were will trust you now?”

“Derek is dying, and the inevitability of that pains me more than you will ever know. But needs must, and my need to remain alive and in power is a must. As for other Weres, I don’t need their trust, just their obedience, and the wolfsbane will guarantee that. Now enough—”

Scott watches as Derek stabs his uncle through the knee. The captain screams and fires wildly, before turning and hitting Derek with the last of his rounds. He stumbles out the door, just as Scott hears sirens. Scott grabs his discarded shotgun and jams a wolfsbane round in, then scrambles out the door.

Hale has dropped his weapon and is holding his badge out. “Show them your badge, son. We’ll work this out. I’ll make sure you get promoted to chief of detectives.”

“No.”

“Enough with your self-righteousness, Scott! Are you willing to rig a crime scene yet?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to beat suspects for a confession?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to shoot a criminal in the back to prevent them hurting anyone in the future?”

Scott raises his weapon and fires.

The captain doesn’t even make a sound when he falls to the ground. Scott drops his gun and holds his badge out as the first of the police cars screeches to a stop.

****************************

When Derek wakes up, it is sudden and violent. One minute he’s dying and the next he’s gasping for breath, trying to sit up but unable to, panicked and unable to shift. And there’s pain. So much pain.

Then there are hands, hard and unyielding on his arms and legs, restraints snapping into place, but the hands on the side of his face are gentle and soothing. He turns to them, nuzzles into the palm.

“Derek? Derek, can you hear me?”

It’s Stiles’ voice, his hands, and Derek forces himself to relax, to focus his eyes.

“There you are,” Stiles says when Derek’s eyes finally zero in on him.

Derek tries to talk, but he can’t.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby. You got shot. They had to wire your jaw shut for a while. They got the wolfsbane out, but it means you’re gonna heal a little slower, and this will help. You understand me?”

Derek nods. He finally relaxes.

Stiles turns to the doctor. “I don’t think we’ll need these anymore,” he says, pointing at the restraints.

The doctor looks unsure, but Derek nods his agreement and moments later the orderlies are freeing Derek.

“The doctor needs to look you over. Ask you a few yes or no questions, okay?”

Derek nods. When Stiles moves to leave, Derek grabs his hand and squeezes, not letting go.

Stiles smiles at him. “I’m not going. I’ll be right there,” he says indicating the chair in the corner. “I just have to make room for the doctor, okay?”

Derek stares at him for a beat, then nods and lets go of Stiles’ hand. The doctor asks Derek questions about how he’s feeling. Explains that the reason he can’t shift is the sedative, but that it will wear off in a couple of hours. Derek took a wolfsbane bullet to the lower part of his face, shattering his jaw. The second bullet tore through his side, ripping up muscle and tissue, but not hitting any organs. The final bullet took him in the shoulder. They removed the bullets and burned out the wolfsbane, but it’s a rare strain and while he will make a full recovery, it will take a few weeks instead of the usual day or so.

When the doctor leaves, Stiles approaches the bed. This time he seems nervous, fingers flitting over the blanket, like he’s unsure where to put his hands. When Derek moves to take his hand, Stiles backs up. Derek’s eyes flash up to where there is still a bandage on Stiles’ face, and he looks away in shame.

“Don’t,” Stiles demands. “Don’t look away from me. Please.”

Derek can’t bring himself to face what he’s done and continues to look out the window.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles begins. “I just . . . Lydia said . . . No. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done it. I—”

Derek’s eyes snap back to Stiles’ and he grunts. Fuck he wants to say something, wants to tell Stiles that it’s not his fault. It was Derek’s crazy temper. He knew what Stiles did, how he made his living.

Stiles darts forward and presses against Derek’s chest, as he tries to sit up more. “Shhh, I’m sorry. Don’t talk, please. God, I’m just making this worse, aren’t I? I should go. I—”

Derek manages a growl and grabs Stiles’ wrist with one hand. With the other he mimes writing, and after a few seconds, Stiles gets with the program.

“Right! Paper and pen. Yeah. Just a minute, okay?”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ wrist again.

“Just pen and paper. I promise I’ll be back.”

He releases Stiles with a grunt and tries to relax against the bed. When Stiles returns, Derek begins to write. After a minute he hands the pad to Stiles.

Stiles reads, “You don’t owe me an apology. I’m an asshole.”

Stiles snorts, then looks at him. “No. I do owe you an apology. You weren’t work. Ever. I need you to know that. McCall . . . I should have said no. I knew it would hurt you, and it was stupid. I think . . . I think I was pushing you away on purpose.”

Derek makes a hurt noise, and Stiles reaches out to touch the unhurt side of his face. “No, not because I didn’t want you, but God, because I do, so much. And you . . . you’re good, in here,” he says placing his hand over Derek’s heart. “And me? I’m kind of an asshole. And a whore. I didn’t see things going well.”

This time Derek snorts and waves a hand encompassing the whole situation, because, well it can’t get much worse than where they’re at. Stiles seems to get it because he starts laughing. Derek does too, until it hurts too much and he whines. His hand pressing against his side.

“Oh God, sorry!”

Derek grabs the pad back, scribbles, then shoves it back to Stiles.

“I love you,” Stiles reads. His hand trembles and he looks up at Derek. “Yeah?”

Derek nods.

“Me, too,” Stiles whispers. He leans forward and rests his forehead against Derek’s.

Two weeks later, Derek watches on TV while McCall is given the Medal of Valor. Next to him on the table is the paper, a picture of Peter on the front page with the headline: Hero Officer Dies Protecting City. There’d been no way to implicate Peter without implicating everyone in power. Instead, they gave the city heroes.

The next day, Stiles is packing the few things they have in the hospital room into a duffle bag, and disappears into the bathroom for Derek’s toiletries. Derek is sitting in a wheelchair, and he cannot wait to get the hell out of there. There’s a knock at the door, and when Derek looks up McCall is standing there.

************************

“So, they’re springing you?”

Hale gives him as much of a smile as he can.

Scott walks in and hands him a flat box. “Go on, Hale. Open it.”

Hale does, and inside is a Medal of Valor. He looks up at Scott.

“It’s yours. You earned it.”

Hale runs his fingers over the ribbon, looks up and grunts at McCall.

“That’s his way of saying ‘thank you,’” Stiles says from the doorway to the bathroom.

Scott looks at Hale, then just reaches over and squeezes his shoulder.

“Let me help you guys,” he says and grabs the handles of the wheelchair. Stiles takes the duffle bag and follows them down the hall.

At the car, Scott helps Hale into the car, then he helps Stiles put the bag in the trunk. He sees another suitcase and a few packing boxes.

“Moving?”

Stiles smiles at him. “Yeah. Going home, to Beacon Hills.” He nods at where Hale sits in the car. “My dad is the sheriff there. I’m pretty sure he could use good deputy.”

“And what about you, Stiles?”

“I think it’ll be good to go home. Maybe I’ll open a bookstore,” he says with a smile.

Scott closes the trunk. “I wish things had been different—”

Stiles cuts him off. “No. Some guys get the accolades and success. Other guys get ex-whores and new lives in a small town. Take care of yourself, Scott.”

Scott watches Stiles slide into the driver’s seat. The car starts, and Stiles leans over to kiss Derek before he puts it in gear and pulls away. Derek turns and raises his hand in goodbye. Scott does the same, then watches them until the car is out of sight.

A part of him can’t help but wish he was the one getting that new life in a small town. He gets in his car, and the radio blares out. “Calling all cars. Calling all cars. 211 in progress at Sunset and Crescent Heights.”

Scott reaches for the radio and responds. As he speeds up San Vincente Boulevard, siren blaring, he smiles and knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.


End file.
